Lentamente
by The Goliath Beetle
Summary: Antonio and Lovino are struggling with catastrophic life changes. A traumatic event leaves Antonio scared of his own shadow; a romantic betrayal destroys Lovino's ability to trust people. And when coping seems impossible, can dance save them? -Human AU- Rated for language and mild sexual situations. SPAMANO and other minor pairings.
1. Chapter 1

_ We've just been introduced,__  
__I do not know you well,__  
__But when the music started__  
__Something drew me to your side. __So many men and girls,__  
__Are in each others arms.__  
__It made me think we might be__  
__Similarly occupied._

* * *

Two suitcases. Not for the first time did it occur to Antonio, that his whole life amounted to two suitcases. Both of them were scruffy and worn, covered in travel stickers, scratches and tears. They didn't even belong to him; Vash had given them to Antonio, out of generosity _(pity)_. The suitcases contained nothing special. Five sets of clothes and underwear. A toothbrush and razor. Some socks, an extra pair of shoes. His official documents. The last of his money.

Antonio didn't dare take a taxi, he needed all the cash he had. Instead, he hauled his two suitcases—only one of them had wheels—and walked from the train station to the apartment. By now, he'd read the address so many times he had it off by-heart. The pavements were glistening with residual rain, the sky was overcast. There weren't too many people about, and the few who were, had grey faces and solemn expressions, all hidden underneath identical black umbrellas.

They mirrored his mood.

This city was as dreary as they came. But it was a cheap place to stay, and that was what mattered. He sighed, wincing as the suitcase he was wheeling twisted sideways and almost slipped out of his grasp. His arm—tanned, muscled, scattered with burn scars—managed to straighten it in time. Once or twice, the twenty-eight-year-old stopped a passer-by to ask them for directions. They responded in cold, distant tones.

Antonio got lost a couple of times, but found the apartment building in the end. His arms hurt from lugging the suitcases, and his feet were starting to ache, but he ignored them for the quiet thudding of his heartbeat. The building itself was white, with symmetrical windows and charming little balconies decorated with flower pots. But Antonio was more preoccupied with the fact that _this was it. _This was his new beginning, and he would not—_could not—_screw it up. If he didn't survive here, he had nowhere else to go. He had no family to help him, and no friends who would bother sticking around. And he couldn't keep freeloading off Vash…Vash had his own problems to deal with.

He walked up to the building's front door, and his finger hovered over the buzzer. He debated; would they be home? Of course they would, they knew he was coming. They'd even promised to have a specially laid out meal for him, which was awfully nice, considering he was technically a total stranger. Antonio bit back a frown and took out his mobile phone. The iPhone was on the verge of complete breakdown, but he couldn't afford a new one. Indeed, this was the only thing that had really survived the fire. The only relic of his old, happy life.

The phone took five whole minutes to start, and was still rather slow and iffy when Antonio opened his contact list. He had over two-hundred numbers saved here. Only Vash had finally come to help. The Spaniard shook his head. This was his second chance. He wasn't going to waste his time mulling about the past.

Instead, he found Francis Bonnefoy's number, and dialled. The Frenchman answered at the first ring. "H-Hola, Senor Bonnefoy. I think I'm outside your building. Do you mind buzzing me in?"

At the other end, he heard a laugh. _"How many times have I told you? Call me Francis! We're going to be flatmates now, oui? And of course, I'll come downstairs."_

"There's really no need—" but the Frenchman had cut the call. Antonio swallowed, nervous. He'd heard about Francis Bonnefoy through an advertisement Vash found in the newspaper. Apparently, he was a chef at a fancy restaurant in this city, but was in need of a flatmate, since the last one had left unexpectedly. Francis lived with another man, Gilbert something, and expected the rent to be divided three ways. Several emails had been sent back and forth between the trio, and now, Antonio was finally moving in.

The door opened, and an extremely good-looking blonde man with pale blue eyes appeared before him. He was well-dressed…almost excessively well-dressed…but had an inviting smile on his face. "Ah, you must be Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, _oui_? Pleasure to meet you. I'm Francis. _Comment _ _ç__a va?_" he reached out to shake Antonio's hand.

The Spaniard lowered the suitcase he was carrying and took Francis's palm. "Hola! _Si, _I'm Antonio. Thank you so much for having me, you have no idea how much it means."

"It's not a problem," Francis smiled, "I'm sure we're going to be good friends." Turning over his shoulder, he hollered, "Gilbert! Come help him with his suitcases!"

From behind Francis came the face of a grinning albino. He had a very playful glint in his red eyes, but seemed mostly non-threatening as he brushed past the Frenchman and walked up to Antonio. "Sup, Toni!" he greeted, before taking Antonio's luggage from him.

"Let me help—"

"Nope, don't need it. You don't have much stuff, do you?" Gilbert gave Antonio a sideways glance, and the Spaniard blushed, embarrassed.

"Well, um…most of it got destroyed in the fire, haha."

If he'd expected pitying glances—he'd received a lot of sympathy lately—Antonio was sorely disappointed (and yet, pleasantly surprised). "That's fine," Francis said, "We have everything you could possibly need, anyway." He waved his hand dismissively, and stepped aside for Gilbert (and the suitcases) to pass.

Gilbert laughed as he carried the suitcases. "Yeah, we're all good, here. Just make sure you don't use Francis's hairbrush, and you'll be fine. _Mein Gott, _he behaves like a teenage girl when you touch his hairbrush."

"It's simply not hygienic to share hairbrushes," Francis stated, in a way that made Antonio think that this was a fairly regular argument between the two. Turning to Antonio, he added, "Ignore him, he's just a child, really. Are you going to come inside, or what? You'll freeze to death. It looks like it might rain again."

"Oh," Antonio exclaimed, realising that, yes, he was still standing outside the building and it had started to drizzle. "Haha, _lo siento, _I guess I was just a little…" but then his voice trailed away, and he quickly followed Gilbert in. Francis shut the door behind them, and led him up a flight of stairs.

The apartment was larger than he'd imagined it. Francis had sent him pictures over email, of course, but now that he was seeing it in person, Antonio was thoroughly impressed. The door opened up to a spacious living room with what looked like a real leather couch, a kitchenette and a dining area, a plasma TV and a bathroom. There were three bedrooms—Antonio's was the furthest from the toilet—and the white walls were dotted with large windows. The place looked chic and modern. While Antonio preferred the rustic, antique style personally, this seemed like a nice enough place to stay.

On the dining table was a full meal. Antonio recognised roast chicken, boiled eggs, some sort of gravy and bread, mashed potatoes, and what looked like a bowl of paella. Well, wasn't that nice of them?! Gilbert deposited the suitcases on the floor of Antonio's new room before saying, "Franny was starting to get worried that you were lost."

"Understandably so," Francis argued, "He's new here, and he was taking so long! Didn't the taxi driver recognise our address?"

"I walked, actually," Antonio admitted, scratching the back of his head with a nervous laugh. The other two men looked at him, and then at each other.

Gilbert said, "No fucking wonder. It's a pretty long walk. You must be ravenous. I know I am."

The food was spectacular. Francis took all credit for it, and there was no doubt in Antonio's mind about the Frenchman's cooking abilities. This fellow was definitely a professional chef. The paella tasted a little odd, but Francis argued that Spanish cuisine was not his forte, and Antonio pacified him with a smile and a cheerful, "It's amazing, Senor Bonnefoy."

Gilbert snorted. "_Senor_? Wow, Francis, he's probably the only one to call you that. Ever." Smirking at Antonio, he said, "Can I be Senor Beilschmidt?"

"I thought you were," Antonio blinked. When Gilbert snickered, the Spaniard said, "Oh. _Ohh, _I think I get the joke, haha!" He really didn't feel like laughing. And the joke wasn't even that funny, anyway.

As the meal progressed, conversation went to more general topics.

"I'm not exactly clear on what you _do, _Gilbert," Antonio began, rolling the Rs on his tongue.

"Basically," the German replied, "I'm a historian. I'm doing my PhD on the Kingdom of Prussia. That was an old German state. The Allies dissolved it after World War Two. I'll actually be moving to Germany by the end of the year, to complete my thesis, you know?" Gilbert outstretched his arm and motioned towards Francis to pass the mashed potatoes, and that was when Antonio noticed the ring.

"Oh, are you married?"

"Engaged," Gilbert corrected, grinning a little. "Matthew, my fiancé, he's Canadian. And a novelist for children. Have you heard of the book _Kumajirou and the Forest_? All the kids love it. We're getting married in eight months, can you believe it? And then, we fly to Germany! We've pooled all our assets and everything, and we've bought this cute little apartment in Berlin. We're leaving right after the wedding."

"That's amazing," Antonio said with a grin. "Congratulations!"

"_Oui,_" Francis muttered, but he sniffed in apparent disapproval. Gilbert rolled his eyes, but the blonde just said, "It'll be the end of an era. Gilbert and I have been living together since college!"

"Oh _mein Gott_," Gilbert muttered, taking a generous helping of mashed potatoes on his plate, "Don't be so dramatic. It's not like I'm _dying._ There's always Facebook and Skype. And anyway, we're only a train ride away."

"Whatever," Francis muttered, but then his face melted into a warm smile. "But isn't _l'amour _the best? One day, I hope to find someone as perfect for me as Mathieu is for Gilbert."

"You can start by not sleeping with everything that moves," Gilbert offered. Sure, the tone was helpful, but there was a smirk in his red eyes. Francis slapped his arm. Antonio laughed. So did Gilbert. The German then turned to Antonio and said, "So, Francis is a chef, I'm a historian. But what do _you _do? You were pretty vague about it over email."

Antonio felt himself blush. "Um…well…I actually used to teach Spanish at a high school. But I couldn't find the same kind of job here. I start work at a café tomorrow. You must have heard of it…it's called_ The Hungarian Café_?"

"Oh, yeah," Gilbert suddenly said. "My ex-girlfriend runs that place!"

"Oh," Antonio whispered.

"Nah, it's cool," the albino grinned. "We're actually pretty good friends."

Antonio relaxed. "That's great. I don't want to cause any conflict of interest…"

"Lighten up, _mon ami,_" Francis smiled. "Don't worry so much. If it's any consolation, I've met Elizabeta, and she is a really lovely girl. In fact, if she knows you're staying with us, she actually might be even nicer to you."

Conversation flowed some more, but then came and rested on the one thing Antonio _did not _want to talk about.

"So, um, Toni," Gilbert began, "What exactly happened, man? This fire…?"

"Gilbert," Francis snapped.

"No, no, it's fine," Antonio lied, offering them one of his trademark grins. "The building I was staying in…well, how do I explain it? The lady living underneath my apartment…I'm not sure what happened, but there was a gas explosion. And the whole building caught fire. And the banks sort of…_stole_…our insurance money. I mean, I'm one of the lucky ones, really. I got most of what was owed to me. It's been months now, and the police have managed to return our money to us. But…" _but things are not the same anymore. Nothing is the same. _"But, you know, it's too little, too late." Antonio shrugged like it wasn't a big deal, but by the looks on their faces, Francis and Gilbert weren't buying the act. Antonio quickly continued, "Most of the remaining tenants just moved away, to stay with their family or friends."

"Didn't your family take you in?" Francis questioned, broaching the topic with the most delicate tone he could possibly muster.

"My parents have been dead for two years now," Antonio explained. "We used to have this beautiful tomato farm out in the country, but my father had to sell that to settle his debts. It broke his heart. He didn't live very long after that. Mom followed shortly after."

"Oh," Gilbert sighed, and that was all that was said on the topic. Francis was quick to move the conversation on to lighter things. Halfway through some story of how they played a prank on someone in college, the Frenchman snapped his fingers and declared that it was time for dessert.

Towards evening, Matthew Williams dropped in. Antonio took an instant liking to the shy young man, who'd bought some maple syrup and pancakes especially for the Spaniard. All of them were going out of their way to make him feel welcome, and Antonio was glad for it. He really, really wanted someone to just _take care _of him. Not that he would ever say that aloud, of course.

Deep down, Antonio knew he'd have to learn to heal himself.

* * *

Ludwig Beilschmidt sighed as he scraped cold, uneaten pasta off the plate and into the dustbin. The kitchen was uncomfortably quiet, save for the drip-drip-dripping of the leaky tap and the monotonous hum of the refrigerator. He heard the slight swish as the door opened, and his husband's soft footsteps entered the room.

"Is that Lovi's lunch?" Feliciano asked as he pulled up a chair at the dining table and sat.

Ludwig turned slightly to look at him, and offered Feli an apologetic smile. "_Ja. _If it's any consolation, though, he did eat it. Some of it, I mean." From the look of unhindered concern on Feli's face, the Italian didn't seem even the slightest bit pacified.

"It's been two months," Feliciano said, his voice so soft that Ludwig almost didn't hear him. "It's really starting to freak me out, Luddy."

"Break-ups can be hard," Ludwig commented, putting the dirty plate in the sink and sitting down opposite his husband. "Lovino and Heracles were almost _married. _It's quite a painful shock to find that Heracles was cheating on him the whole time. I'm sure he'll be all right."

"That's not the point, though," Feliciano muttered. "You know how Lovi has trust issues. It took him two _years _to warm up to _you. _And you're the most dependable person there is!"

Ludwig blushed at the compliment, but said, "Actually, I still think he hates me."

Feli cracked a small smile. "He doesn't hate you. He claims to hate you, but he doesn't. Trust me, I know."

"Really? That's good to hear."

At this point, Feliciano stood and stretched, the hem of his shirt rising up a little and exposing his slender waist. Yawning, he said, "I'm going to make hot chocolate. Would you like some?"

"Sure, I wouldn't mind. Are you going to make some for Lovino as well?"

"Of course. He needs to get some food into his system." Feliciano busied himself in the kitchen, the familiar sounds boiling milk and the clatter of cups and saucers making the room seem a little less threatening than it did before. Ludwig loved watching Feliciano work. His Italian was always the most relaxed when he was in the kitchen, finding extreme joy from turning raw ingredients into delectable meals.

"You know what, I think we should take him out to dinner tonight," Ludwig said.

"Who? Lovi?"

"_Ja. _Some fresh air would do him good. He's been locked in his room for three days now. The last time I even saw him in the living room was when he fell asleep on the couch after watching _Titanic _three times over."

Feliciano smiled. Despite how much they didn't seem to get along, it always heartened him to see Ludwig so concerned about his brother. Lovino was so suspicious of everyone, Ludwig included, and it just broke Feliciano's heart to see his brother so completely _shattered. _Never before had Lovino broken down like this, not even when their beloved grandfather died. Feli had been sobbing through the last weeks of his illness, but Lovino just kept a stiff upper lip. And when the old man finally passed away, Feliciano had actually fallen sick. It was Lovino who quietly handled all the funeral arrangements. He'd held together like iron.

Now, though…

He'd never expected a simple break-up to have such a profound effect on Lovino. In fact, it was only a month before the wedding date that Lovino had discovered Heracles in bed with some random girl. His brother had driven through the night, all the way to Feliciano and Ludwig's house, and collapsed in a heap of tears. At that point, he'd been so beyond hysterical that Ludwig had to put a sleeping pill in his tea to get him to calm down. In the weeks that followed, Lovino had completely dropped all pretence of strength.

His brother and his trust issues. Secretly, Feliciano was terrified that the whole ordeal had damaged Lovi for good. By the looks of things, he was never letting anybody get close to him ever again.

"Yes, that's a good idea," Feliciano muttered as he placed a steam cup of hot chocolate in front of Ludwig. "Not someplace too fancy. Somewhere we can call relax."

"_Ja, _of course. I'll make a reservation." Ludwig reached for his mobile phone.

"I'll try to get Lovi to drink this," Feli muttered, taking another cup of hot chocolate and heading to the guest bedroom.

His brother's room door was shut, but unlocked. When Feliciano opened it, the unsavoury stench of sweat and unwashed clothes hit him in the face. Lovino was wearing a three-day-old t-shirt and jeans, lying on his stomach with his face buried in a pillow. The lights were all switched off, and when Feliciano dared to turn on the bedside lamp, his brother let out an involuntary groan.

The room was a complete mess. Clothes, books, and untouched plates of food lay scattered across the floor. The curtains were drawn and the windows were shut. It was stuffy and smelly and airless.

"Lovi?" Feliciano began, putting the cup on the nightstand and sitting down on the bed beside his brother. "Lovi, I've got you some hot chocolate. Won't you drink it?"

Lovino shifted to look at his brother without actually lifting his head. One half of his face was buried in the pillow, but Feliciano noticed a single golden eye gazing right at him. Lovi had always had the most intense stare.

"I'm not hungry," his brother stated. His voice was a little muffled because of all the bedding, but Feliciano heard him clearly enough. This statement had become Lovino's standard response to everything.

"You have to have something. You didn't even touch you lunch."

"I ate."

"Not enough."

"Fuck off, Feliciano." His voice was so tired, so defeated, that Feliciano almost burst into tears right there. This was not how his brother was supposed to be. Lovino was always the angry, fiery, fierce one. This was simply _not normal._

"_Fratello, _please. Just have a few sips, come on? I made it just for you. And we're going out tonight, the three of us. Why don't you have a shower? Trust me, you'll feel much better!"

"I don't want to go out."

"Ludwig's already booked a table," Feliciano said. "It's going to be fun, I promise."

"Nothing's ever fun with that Potato Bastard."

Feliciano bit back a sarcastic comment. Swallowing a slight touch of irritation, he said, "Lovino, come on, sit up. This simply isn't healthy. Just have half a cup of hot chocolate. That's not too much! It tastes so good!" Feliciano placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. The man's shirt was sticky with dried sweat, and Feli almost recoiled. But he didn't. Lovino had been more than patient with him when their grandfather died. It was time Feliciano returned the gesture.

It took fifteen minutes of coaxing before Lovino finally sat up. He'd lost weight. His clothes hung off him. His face was pale and sallow. He looked seriously ill. By the time Feliciano had convinced him to drink some hot chocolate, a layer of cream had formed on the surface and the milk had become slightly cool.

Lovino drank quietly. Feliciano desperately wanted to break the silence, but he just didn't know what to say. He hated it when he just prattled on about something, without any sharp-tongued responses from his older brother. Really, even a 'Shut the fuck up!' would have been welcome.

The elder Vargas got through only one-fourth of the drink before wordlessly handing the cup back to Feli and lying right back down on the bed.

"Oh, Lovi, _don't. _Come on, finish this! And then take a shower."

"Don't feel like it."

"Please? For me?"

"Feliciano, just get out. I don't want to go anywhere. I don't want to talk to you. Leave me alone." His voice crack on the last word—'alone'. "Everyone leaves in the end. Just…stop pretending like you give a shit, okay? I don't have the strength to deal with your pathetic lies right now."

"You _know _that's not true. I care about you very much. Both Luddy and I do. And you're starting to scare me. Please…please, just finish the hot chocolate?"

"I said fuck off!" Lovino shouted. Sudden strength made him sit up. Hands curled around his hair. "Leave me alone. Just like everyone else. Just like Heracles. Just…_go._" Tears spilled from his eyes. "I can't…I can't…"

"Oh, Lovi," Feliciano whispered, setting the cup down on the nightstand again. "Oh, my sweet Lovi…" he pulled his brother into a hug, and was shocked to find Lovino sink into it. What scared him even more was how easily he could wrap his arms around Lovino. The elder brother had become practically skeletal. "I'm not going anywhere, I promise. Will you please, _please _finish your hot chocolate?"

It did take a little more coaxing, but in the end, Lovino not only finished the drink, but also agreed to have a bath. Feliciano made a big deal of it, filling up the tub with bubbles and a rubber ducky, much to Lovino's annoyance. Feliciano took out a fresh set of clothes, and while his brother bathed, proceeded to square up the bedroom a little.

He picked up all the stray plates, binned the untouched food, and changed the bed sheets. He threw open the windows and swept the room, spraying it with air-freshener. Making a large pile of Lovino's dirty clothes, he even put them in the washing machine and started the cycle. In only about half-an-hour, the room looked far more inviting. It even smelled better, which was a relief.

Feliciano was in the kitchen talking to Ludwig when Lovino tentatively entered. Both of them smiled at him encouragingly.

"Are you feeling any better, Lovino?" Ludwig questioned.

"Yeah, fine," Lovino deadpanned. His eyes were red again. Either he managed to get soap in them, or he'd been crying. Still, it was nice to see him with freshly washed hair and a smart black shirt and trousers. "So, where the fuck are we going?"

"Oh, _The Hungarian Café_!" Feliciano replied, "That cute little place with the open-air seating and good food."

"Never heard of it."

"Well, it's a nice place," Feliciano replied mildly. "You'll like it. Luddy's older brother's ex-girlfriend—" but his eyes widened in horror and he stopped dead in his tracks. Even Ludwig looked slightly panicked as Lovino's knuckles tightened over the doorknob. Quickly, Feliciano said, "They have nice pasta, and they'll even serve it with extra tomatoes! Lovi…? Lovi, wait, come back!"

His older brother had already left the kitchen, marching up to his room and slamming the door shut behind him.

* * *

Antonio's new room was white-walled, like the rest of the house. Francis had made his bed with cream-hued sheets that had yellow frills on the hems. There were two windows, a cupboard a mirror and a nightstand with a lamp. Antonio got to unpacking as soon as he was able to get a moment to himself. Francis went to work—he had an evening shift in his restaurant—Gilbert and Matthew were playing video games on the plasma TV. They asked Antonio if he'd want to play, but Antonio declined. Not only did he not want to interrupt them, but he also wanted to sort out his things.

Not that there was much to unpack, anyway. It took him less than ten minutes to empty his suitcases, which he then shoved under the bed. Antonio now had nothing to do. He flopped down on the mattress and closed his eyes. Unconsciously, he moved his hand under his shirt to touch one of the many burn scars he had on his body. There was a large one on his chest—the one that almost killed him—some on his arms and legs. A bad one on his shoulder. All of them had healed, eventually.

But the memories.

Antonio would never forget that day. He still had nightmares about it. He woke up that morning, and was sitting in his kitchen, going over the notes he was going to teach in class. Sipping his coffee. A normal day. And then, from underneath him, there was a tremendous explosion.

Antonio couldn't remember the details that well. The doctors said it was a combination of shock and unconsciousness, but he did remember the smoke alarms, the fire, the searing agony all over his body. He was slightly lucid when the fire-fighters found him. Apparently, he'd been covered in blood. Not only was he burnt all over, but he'd been almost crushed under rubble. Out of the fifty-odd tenants in that building, twenty-seven had perished. Some of them had been his friends.

Vash, the economics teacher at his high school, had been the first to visit him. Antonio remained in the hospital for weeks, and then was moved to Vash's apartment, where he stayed with him and his younger sister. The nightmares began shortly after that. Antonio would flinch at every loud noise, and he absolutely could _not _tolerate an open flame. He stopped cooking for himself. He barely slept. Antonio began to find it increasingly difficult to deal with everyday life. And Vash even had a firearm at his place. The very knowledge of its existence would throw Antonio into panic attacks.

The insurance money wasn't coming through, and Antonio was losing all control over his life at this point. He lost his job a month later, and a month after that, when the money finally came, Vash told him it was high time he got back on his own feet.

Easier said than done.

Antonio was still terrified of everything.

Through the door, Gilbert's loud laughter was making him break out into cold sweat. Even the volume of the television was making his heart race. His ears were ringing. All he could here was the _boom _of the gas explosion that blew apart his whole way of life…

Crap. Crap, crap. He needed to get out of here, before he had a panic attack and made his new roommate freak out.

Antonio bolted out of his bedroom and marched past Gilbert and Matthew. "Hey, I'm going out for a walk, okay?" he managed to say. He didn't even wait for them to respond before grabbing his set of house-keys and exiting the house.

The night air was colder than he'd expected it to be, but that actually came as a relief. Antonio was too scared of hot weather. Of heat. Of smoke. Of fire. Of explosions. Burns. Blood. Scars.

He groaned, desperately running his hands through his hair, as though this very act would make the memories go away. Lili had once thought if this was some sort of Post Traumatic Stress reaction. She was studying psychology; she often knew what she was talking about. But Antonio didn't want her to be right. Because post traumatic stress disorder was an actual illness, and he simply could _not _afford it right now. His financial situation was precarious as it was, without his mental health adding any more weight on his pathetic bank account.

He didn't know where he was going. He barely even knew this city. Actually, he knew nothing about it at all. Just running off in random directions was the stupidest thing he could possibly do, but Antonio didn't care. He just wanted to get _away _from all the horrors that lived inside his head.

* * *

Lovino sat with his arms crossed over his chest, dull gold eyes trying to glare at everything around him all at once. He wasn't sure how his brother managed to convince him into this. He didn't feel like it. The idea of trying to socialise, just…it just drained the strength from his body. He'd never expected to react quite this badly to Heracles's betrayal, but—

That was it, wasn't it? Betrayal? Nobody ever wanted to stay loyal to Lovino. He'd been ostracised all through school and college. He was worthless. Good for nothing. This…this _farce_ that Feliciano was putting up…all this fake concern and shit…

_The Hungarian Café _was a nice place, Lovino conceded. It had an air-conditioned indoor seating area, and five or six tables outside, with dark green umbrellas over them. There was a juice bar and instrumental piano music. Indoors, the place was lit up in comforting yellow lights. It looked extremely cosy. And Lovino craved the security of that.

But they were sitting outside. All Lovino could focus on was the number of couples sitting across the tables, making googly-eyes at each other. Those selfish assholes. How dare they. How dare they be so fucking happy when all Lovino wanted to do was crawl into bed and die? But he couldn't do anything about this feeling. This was impotent rage.

So he directed all his annoyance at Feli and Ludwig. He knew he wasn't being fair on them. They'd put up with his nonsense for two months now, and sooner or later, even they would get pissed off and kick him out of the house. But he just…ugh, he was so furious!

Moodily, he picked at his macaroni. Extra tomatoes, just as Feli had promised. How his brother even managed to convince him to come here, Lovino didn't even know. He wasn't hungry, just tired. He just wanted to go home.

(Go home to Heracles.)

(Yeah, that was going to happen.)

It was a tense dinner. Feliciano's attempts at making conversation were becoming so desperate that Lovino would have actually pitied him. Ludwig, at least, was being responsive. The German asshole 'hmm'-ed and mumbled, but it was clear that he was feeling terribly awkward about this whole thing too.

Lovino didn't care. He didn't care about any of them.

His eyes darted about the locality. He was fairly new to this city. Heracles didn't like it here, so they'd stayed far out into the country. When Lovino found out about…the other women, he'd driven all the way here without a break. He'd needed Feliciano back then. He still needed Feli, he just…_everything hurt so much_.

Especially since Feli was a little drunk, and kept _clinging _to Ludwig, pecking his jaw and laughing a little too loudly at anything the German bastard said. It made Lovino's insides churn. And it reminded him so much of Heracles that he could literally feel his heart spontaneously combusting and turning into ash.

The café overlooked a series of establishments across the street. A couple of restaurants. A bookstore. Another café. It looked very inviting, actually. He raised his eyebrow slightly as he spotted a small, inconspicuous looking door with a neon sign above it. _Shall We Dance? _Except, some of the letters were flickering, and others had died out completely, so it actually read as _Shal We Danc? _

"_Fratello_," Lovino found himself saying, "What the fuck is that?" and he jerked his head towards the weird little establishment.

Feliciano looked genuinely startled to hear Lovino say something. Something apart from grumbling and cussing and tears. Even Ludwig's eyes widened slightly, as Feliciano put his fork down on his plate and let his eyes follow Lovino's gaze.

"Oh," he said, as though he'd just noticed it. "I have no idea, Lovi. I don't come here that often. Maybe we can ask Elizabeta. I'm sure she'd know."

The pretty young woman with hazel hair seemed a little surprised at the question, but answered it nonetheless. Chewing on her bottom lip, she said, "Oh, _that. _It's a dance class. Ballroom and Latin, I think. It used to be pretty popular a couple of years ago. But now it's really lost its character. A lot of the students changed to _The Spanish Armada_. That's the dance studio in the next street. It's…well, it's swankier than this place."

"_The Spanish Armada_," Lovino repeated, his lips curling in distaste. "They do know that the Spanish Armada was a naval embarrassment, don't they? It took just a handful of English ships to fucking obliterate more than half of it."

Elizabeta chuckled. "You're sharp on your history, aren't you?" Glancing back at the derelict dance class, she sighed. "It's a shame, actually. All the students from there would just cross the street after their lesson to eat here. Now it's just a creepy little dump that'll close down if it doesn't get a makeover. And fast."

Lovino rolled his eyes. A sudden jolt of annoyance made him stab his pasta with unnecessary roughness and stuff it into his mouth. The food was delicious. It suddenly occurred to Lovino how he hadn't eaten in forever. He took another bite. "Pathetic," he muttered. "Pathetic little dance studio."

Feliciano was about to ask Elizabeta something more about the place, but a customer from another table called out for her, and she gave the three of them an apologetic smile before getting back to work.

Nobody said anything more throughout dinner, though Lovino kept shooting glances to the sad dance studio. _Shal We Danc? _Wasn't that a song? _Shall we dance…on a bright cloud of music, shall we fly? _Ah, who gave a fuck.

"Who are you looking at, Lovi?" Feliciano asked, and only then did Lovino realise he'd been staring at some random asshole for over five minutes. Lovino could only see a silhouette from his distance, but the man was standing right in front of _Shal We Danc? _and was pacing up and down. He seemed nervous. And perhaps even lost.

"That _idiota _over there," Lovino deadpanned, taking a sip of his wine. He was really, really hungry. "The one walking around like a fucking brain-dead donkey."

"He looks pretty stressed," Feli noted, frowning a little.

"I'm sure it's nothing, Feliciano," Ludwig muttered.

"Shit, he's coming over here."

And sure enough, the man had stopped, staring blankly at _The Hungarian Café. _Now, he was crossing the road, approaching it.

* * *

Antonio knew this would happen. What had he been expecting? To just charge around a city he didn't know, sans map, sans mobile phone, sans wallet, and _not _get lost? Oh, wasn't he just an absolute genius!

When he finally realised he was lost, Antonio stopped and looked around. Lots of cafes and restaurants around here, but the one thing Antonio noticed was that he was standing right outside a dance studio. It was a hole-in-the-wall kind of place, without any glass doors, which was instantly off-putting. In fact, it had a heavy wooden door with a pleasant, rustic feel about it. For a house, it would have been a great look. But for a dance class, it was just a little bit weird.

Still, it had a neon sign with the words _Shal We Danc? _and there was unmistakably chirpy music wafting through the door. Oh god. Antonio knew this music. He could play it on his guitar, back when he had a guitar.

He knew that beat.

One-two-three-_**hold four**__-_five-six-seven-_**hold eight**_. Repeating. One-two-three, five-six-seven.

A memory came flooding back to him. A memory of when he was a child, back in the family tomato farm. Sunday mornings. Sunlight streaming through the windows. The smell of freshly cut tomatoes in the air. And music. Music flitting through a banged-up stereo. And his parents dancing in the kitchen.

They hadn't known that ten-year-old Antonio had been watching. But his mother had been laughing and his father had a cheeky smile on his face as he spun her around and dipped her and lead her into dance steps that moulded together fluidly. One-two-three, _**hold four**_, five-six-seven, _**hold eight**_.

Salsa.

Oh, salsa.

Another memory. Antonio, a dancer in his free time, revelling in the spotlight of some school prom event he could barely even recognise. A girl on his arm as he spun her across the room. He didn't know that he was gay back then, all he cared about was that she was pretty, and sweet, and they were friends. Plus, she was a fabulous dancer. The music changed from salsa to tango in an instant, a change so surprising that Antonio almost missed the beat. But he'd been able to pick up and slow down. Tango was the sort of dance to be relished, relished for its flirty, playful style. Antonio moved between Paso Doble, Cha Cha, Rumba and Mambo effortlessly. His favourite had always been Salsa, though.

By the end of that evening, his partner had been breathless, and her feet were covered in shoe bites, but she'd also kissed Antonio on the lips and had told him that it had been the best night of her life.

Antonio groaned. He'd stopped dancing after his parents passed away. It seemed…wrong, somehow. And the music from this creepy little studio was starting to irk him. The way it brought back memories like this…

Crap. He had to get out of here. He had to—

Wait a minute. Was that _The Hungarian Café_? Huh. Where the heck was he? That was where he was supposed to start work tomorrow! Gilbert's ex-girlfriend ran the place, right? Elizabeta something? _Ay, _she was to be his boss. What the heck was her full name?

Whatever. He'd ask Gilbert later. (Or just check his appointment letter when he got home.) For now, he needed directions back to the house. Antonio didn't wait a moment longer; he charged towards the little café.

* * *

By this point, the only reason Lovino was paying attention to the idiot was because everywhere else he looked, he spotted people making out. Even Feli and Ludwig were getting uncomfortably touchy-feely. It was making Lovino physically sick.

The man who'd been pacing came barging towards the café. Under the light of the place's lamps, Lovino noticed his face. He was tanned, rather attractive, with tousled brown hair and bright green eyes. His sleeves were rolled up, and Lovino noticed scars on his arms. They were shiny. Burn marks?

He looked a little panicked as he went over to the nearest waiter and asked, "Excuse me, but is it possible for me to speak to…uh…Miss Elizabeta?"

Hmm. Now why would he want to speak to Elizabeta? Probably a boyfriend? No, he looked too flustered by the whole thing. He kept wringing his hands nervously as the waiter walked off, returning a few minutes later with the young Hungarian woman.

She blinked at the man. "Yes? Can I help you?"

Definitely not a boyfriend.

"Um, hi, I'm Antonio Carriedo…? I'm supposed to—"

She laughed. "Oh, Antonio! Don't you start work tomorrow?"

Ah, so an employee. Eh. Boring.

"Yes," the man admitted, shrugging. He offered her a sheepish smile that made Lovino raise an eyebrow. There was something...rather _endearing_ about him. "But you see, ah, I don't know if you're aware of this, but I'm actually Gilbert Beilschmidt's new flatmate."

Wait. What.

Even Ludwig paused in mid-sentence and straightened. "Did someone say Beilschmidt?" he asked Feli.

"Yeah," Lovino muttered, discreetly pointing towards this Antonio Carriedo person. "That guy, there. Says he's your brother's new flatmate. Your brother, Gilbert, right?"

Elizabeta, too, seemed momentarily startled by this declaration. "What? Really? That's an amazing coincidence! Well, that makes you practically family!"

Feliciano and Ludwig were openly staring at Antonio. It made Lovino want to roll his eyes. Antonio, meanwhile, said, "Ahaha, that's really sweet of you, Miss Elizabeta, but I actually just…well, I'm lost," he finished lamely. "Do you mind giving me directions to—"

"Darling, I'll take you there myself." She gave him a smile. "I know it's a bit confusing in a new city, especially at night! Don't you worry. Just sit down, order something to eat if you like. Dinner rush ends in half-an-hour. I'll drop you to Gilbert's place after that. Sounds like a plan?"

His eyes widened. "I really don't want you to trouble yourself. In fact, I'm going to start work here tomorrow. Now that I'm here right now, I might as well pitch in. _Si_?"

She laughed. "No, no, I'll give you a proper orientation tomorrow. For now, just take it easy." Her eyes suddenly widened, and she said, "Actually, Gilbert's younger brother is here right now. Do you want to meet him?"

"Oh boy," Lovino grumbled.

Antonio, meanwhile, looked a little more than shell-shocked at this entire conversation. He didn't even get a word edgeways before Elizabeta took him by the arm and dragged him towards their table. Flourishing him in front of Ludwig like some sort of delicious appetizer, Elizabeta declared, "Ludwig, I believe this is Gilbert's new flatmate, Antonio. Antonio, this is Ludwig, his husband Feliciano, and Feli's brother, Lovino."

"Hola…" Antonio said uncertainly.

His awkwardness was not out of place. Ludwig's mouth was hanging half-open, and Feli just looked blank.

Lovino sighed. "Well, what are you gaping at?" he snapped at no-one in particular. To Antonio, he muttered, "Yeah, hi. Sit the fuck down, let's all play happy families."

This 'greeting' was apparently enough to jerk Ludwig into action. He stood, ever polite, and shook Antonio's hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr…? Carriedo, correct?"

"_S-si. _I hate to barge in on your dinner like this…" he chuckled, still awkward, and scratched the back of his head. Once more, Lovino found himself quirking an eyebrow in his direction. Endearing. Definitely endearing.

"Ve, it's nothing," Feliciano said with a disarming smile. "Why don't you join us?"

"No, it's alright." Antonio beamed at all of them.

Ugh. Too cheerful.

"Hey," Lovino snapped. "I thought I told you to sit the fuck down." Anything—_anyone—_was better company than having to watch Ludwig and Feliciano kiss for probably the tenth time in seven minutes. Feli needed tone down on the wine a little.

Antonio's eyes widened at the comment, but he obediently pulled up a chair and sat. "Hola. You must be Lovino, right? It's a pleasure to meet you."

He shrugged. "Whatever."

Feliciano shot him a reprimanding look, and said, "So, are you new here?"

"I just moved in this afternoon, actually."

"_Ja, _I remember Gilbert mentioning something about a new flatmate. Are you from Spain, Mr. Carriedo?"

"Please, call me Antonio! Mr. Carriedo sounds so formal." He chuckled to himself. "_Si, _I am from Spain."

"Don't the Spanish have this crazy-ass festival where they chuck tomatoes at each other?" Lovino's tone was downright accusatory. "Fucking waste of tomatoes, if you ask me."

"Lovi!" Feli cried. To Antonio, he said, "Haha, don't mind him. He's always teasing, that way…"

Antonio smiled. "_La Tomatina, si. _It's a lot of fun, actually."

"Yeah, great. Good for you." Lovino took a long sip of his wine. It amazed him, but he'd actually managed to finish a full plate of food. Maybe this idea of going out for dinner had been half-decent, after all. It wasn't like he was _trying _to play the victim in this break-up with Heracles.

Fuck no. He didn't want to think about that right now.

"So, you are going to work here?" Ludwig asked.

"Yes. From tomorrow."

"Ah. And how is my brother behaving with you? I apologise for his brashness. He's a little rough around the edges."

"Oh, no! Gilbert's been very accommodating, actually."

"Really? Well, that's good, I suppose. Be warned, though, he can be a little…rough."

"Don't ask him about Prussia," Lovino advised coldly. "The bastard doesn't shut the fuck up. Last I knew, he even had Prussian flag boxers."

"It's actually quite sweet how he's so dedicated to his work," Feliciano defended, albeit a little weakly.

"_Ja, _actually. It's the only thing he takes seriously. Prussia, and Matthew Williams."

"Oh, I've met Matthew," Antonio interjected. "He seems really sweet."

"Oh, he's adorable," Feli said with a grin.

"Actually, even I like him," Lovino muttered. "Doesn't make sense how a guy like him ends up with a moron like Gilbert, but it's not anyone's business to judge, so whatever."

An uncomfortable silence fell on the table, and Antonio seemed to notice that his sleeves were rolled up. His tanned skin darkened even more as he pulled them down, covering the scars on his arms. Ludwig noticed this. Feliciano did not. Nobody commented.

It was getting awkward again. Well, fuck.

"You dance?" Lovino questioned, rather brashly. "Saw you marching around outside that dance class. The one that looks like it might fall down where it stands." That was not why Lovino asked the question, though. He asked, because Antonio walked in a very particular way. He'd noticed this right at the beginning. Antonio carried himself with natural rhythm, grace that nobody usually possessed. He walked like a dancer, and that made Lovino slightly, _slightly _curious.

Antonio turned to where _Shal We Danc? _stood, and shook his head. There was a quick, fleeting frown on his face, and he said, "No, I don't dance. I was just panicking because I got lost. Why? Do you dance?"

"Fuck no."

Another silence. Antonio swallowed. Lovino sipped his wine. Feliciano and Ludwig exchanged glances.

Thank god for Elizabeta. She came up to them with a slight frown on her features, and broke the silence by saying, "Hey, Antonio, turns out, I'll have to stay here for a while. One of my chefs is sick, the poor fellow. If I give you the directions, do you think you'll be able to find your way?"

He stood. "Of course, Miss Elizabeta! That's exactly what I was suggesting in the first place!"

Elizabeta tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Right. Well, just go back the way you came, okay? Take a left at the crossing, go straight, take the second right, and there you are! Did you get that? Do you want me to write it down?"

"No, no, I'll remember it." He smiled at her and shook her hand. To the rest of the table, he said, "It's really nice to meet you all. Thank you for your hospitality."

"Oh, don't be so formal!" Feli cried. "It was lovely to meet you as well. I suppose we'll be seeing more of you, right? Being Gilly's flatmate and all that?"

"I guess so." Antonio offered Feliciano another one of his sheepish, endearing smiles. Ludwig then stood and gave his pleasantries. Lovino just nodded at Antonio.

When the Spaniard went away, the table was quiet again for several minutes. Lovino broke it. He looked straight at Ludwig, and said, "Did you see the scars on his arms? Looked recent."

"Scars?" Feli questioned.

"_Ja. _Like he was in a fire."

Lovino drained his glass of wine in one long sip. "Sucks to be him, I guess."

* * *

It was half-past ten when Antonio finally made it back to his new home. Gilbert and Matthew were eating pizza straight from the box as they snuggled up to each other on the couch and watched a movie, a blanket covering the both of them.

"Hola," Antonio greeted with a smile. Matthew paused the movie, Gilbert shot him a grin.

"Hi, Toni! Long walk, huh? Did you get lost or something?" Gilbert asked.

"Haha, something like that. I actually found _The Hungarian Café._" Antonio wasn't sure how Matthew would react to any mention of Gilbert's ex-girlfriend, so he didn't dare say Elizabeta's name. To the Spaniard's relief, however, he realised he had no reason to worry.

Matthew's eyes lit up. "Oh, Lizzie's café? Doesn't it have the best food?"

"Uh..."

"He's going to start work there tomorrow, Birdie!"

"Really? That's great. Elizabeta's a really nice person." Pushing himself off the couch, Matthew said, "Do you want to have some pizza, Antonio?"

"No, thank you," Antonio replied, "I didn't mean to interrupt. I'm going to my room." He deposited his keys on the countertop, but Matthew stopped him with a hand on his elbow.

"You weren't interrupting anything, silly," the Canadian said, "We've seen this movie a hundred times."

"_Ja, _stop being so formal!" Gilbert picked up the blanket, which had fallen to the floor, and swiped another piece of pizza from the box. Antonio suddenly felt a clawing hunger at the pit of his stomach. He went over and copied Gilbert. The pizza was room temperature, but cheesy and delicious.

"I actually met your brother and his husband," Antonio suddenly said, talking as he chewed.

"What?"

"Ludwig, right? And Feliciano? And Feliciano's brother…Lo…Lovino?" Antonio frowned, trying to remember the name.

"Wow, you ran into them?"

Antonio began to narrate exactly what had happened, right from meeting Elizabeta to her dragging her towards Ludwig. He even summarised the conversation they'd had. By the time he was done, Gilbert had a small smirk on his face and even Matthew looked rather amused. The Canadian said, "Small world, isn't it?"

"Yup. Knowing Luddy, he'll probably write me an impersonal-sounding email about this meeting, and he'll end it with some polite questions about you, Antonio." Shaking his head in even more amusement, he took a large bite of his pizza.

Matthew, however, had quietened a little. "You said you met Lovino Vargas."

"Yes," Antonio replied.

"How…how is he? Is he alright? Did he look well?"

Gilbert shot Matthew an unreadable look, and then both of them turned to stare at Antonio. The Spaniard found himself stammering at the attention.

"Well, um, he looked…okay, I guess?" Antonio struggled to remember the details of Lovino Vargas. No, 'okay' wasn't the right word. Lovino had appeared—"Actually, he looked unwell. All skin and bones."

Matthew sighed.

"Why?" Antonio questioned, suddenly curious. "Is he, you know, sick?"

"Not exactly," Gilbert muttered, choosing his words carefully. Swallowing a large bite of pizza, he said, "He had a really, really bad break-up with his fiancé, Heracles. It's been a couple of months, though. According to Feli—you know, Feliciano—he's still pretty upset about it."

"Yeah, it's starting to get everyone really worried," Matthew mumbled, going up to the sink and starting on the dishes. Clearly, Matthew was very much at home in his house. "He doesn't eat, he doesn't sleep, he hasn't gone to work in ages. I don't even think he has a job anymore, actually." Glancing momentarily at Antonio, Matthew continued, "He worked as a journalist."

"Oh," Antonio said, lowering his eyes. "I'm so sorry for Lovino. That sounds rough."

Gilbert, who was now rifling through the refrigerator for something to drink, said, "Rough is an understatement. That guy seems like a complete asshole, I know, but he's got his heart in the right place. And it takes a while for him to open up to anyone, so he's probably feeling betrayed. You know, on a magnitude far greater than normal." Pulling out some beer, he wordlessly offered it to Matthew and Antonio, both of whom declined. With a shrug, Gilbert drank straight from the bottle.

Matthew had been scrubbing a dirty ceramic plate, when it slipped from his soapy hands and fell against the sink. It made a loud clatter.

A loud clatter.

A LOUD clatter.

LOUD. LOUD. LOUD.

Antonio felt his insides go cold as his whole body froze in terror at the noise. A clatter, like glass, a shatter, a boom, an explosion, a smoke, a fire, blood. _Splat. _The half-eaten pizza slipped from his hands and hit the floor. The floor, like the one in his old apartment, like the one that gave away to an explosion, a boom, some smoke, a fire, blood.

"—Tonio? Antonio? Are you okay?"

He didn't know what had happened, but he suddenly found Matthew's face uncomfortably close to his own. He was no longer standing. Someone had made him sit on the couch. Gilbert gently pushed Matthew out of the way. His red eyes were like a magnetic force, and Antonio found himself looking right into them.

"Are you all right?" Gilbert asked. His voice was very calm, practiced. "You just spaced out on us."

"Sorry," Antonio mumbled, his voice sounding foreign to his ears. He pushed himself off the couch, and muttered, "I think I'm just tired." Smiling at them, he said, "I'm going to go to bed, okay? It's been a pretty long day for me."

Gilbert narrowed his eyes, but then sighed and nodded. "Sure. See you in the morning."

"Good night," Matthew said quietly, and gave Antonio the smallest of smiles.

* * *

"_Fratello, _did you have fun?" Feliciano dared, crossing his fingers behind his back as Ludwig unlocked the house door for them. Lovino had been extremely quiet throughout the ride home. Not surprising in itself—he'd been taciturn and moody for a long time now—but Feli had noticed how he was actually making conversation with that Antonio-person during dinner, so he'd hoped for a more cheerful response from his brother. Not that Lovino was _ever _cheerful.

"Fine." Lovino was dragging his feet, and entered the apartment last. His drawn, tired face made Feliciano's heart clench.

"Did you like the food? You ate all your pasta!"

"It was fine." Lovino looked around the living room, and his emotionless expression slipped into something akin to despair. He looked genuinely lost as he muttered, "I'm going to bed now."

"Uh…sure," Feliciano mumbled, a little uncertain.

"Good night," Ludwig offered, but Lovino had already left the room.

Lovino was feeling queasy. He didn't know if it was because he'd eaten a full meal after what seemed like years, or because he was missing Heracles like crazy. Oh _Dio, _Heracles. Lovino hadn't expected _The Hungarian Café _to be so packed with couples on dates, he hadn't expected Feli to get a little tipsy—and hence, a little clingy—to his precious German. All of it was compounded with the crushing loneliness that was eating Lovino whole.

He was falling to pieces. No job, no motivation, no appetite, _nobody_. Sooner or later, Feliciano and Ludwig would get sick of him. Oh, it was probably happening now. They were probably sprawled on the couch in the living room, sucking each other's faces. Then Feliciano would pause for air, and say, "You know, I'm getting really tired of Lovi mooching around the place all the time." And Ludwig would smile a little and say, "_Ja, _I'm so glad you brought it up. I hate him too." "We should get rid of him, right, Luddy? We deserve to have our privacy. After all, we've put up with him for so many weeks." And that would be it. He'd find his suitcases packed and waiting by the door, and Feli would offer his sympathetic smile and say, "Sorry, Lovi, but you're really a complete waste of time, you know?"

A groan escaped Lovino's lips as he buried his head into a pillow. "Shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up!" he snarled to himself. And suddenly, his stomach twisted. His eyes widened in a combination of surprise and horror as a terrible burning sensation made its way up his chest and to his throat.

Lovino barely managed to make it to the toilet in time, and was violently sick down the commode. When it was all over, he could barely even stand. But Lovino didn't dare asking Feli for help. His brother was probably annoyed with his constant dependency, anyway.

It took a while, but Lovino managed to sort himself out. He flushed the toilet and washed his mouth, his trembling body collapsing onto the bed. He closed his eyes. Whenever Lovino fell ill, Heracles would stay at home and dote on him, cuddle him and sleep next to him. They'd sometimes watch movies on TV, just the two of them, curling up under one thick blanket, drinking hot chocolate or tomato soup or whatever Lovino felt like having at the time.

But Heracles was a traitor. A sick, dirty cheat.

* * *

Antonio woke up with a start. From the windows, dim blue light entered the room. It was just before dawn, and if the drops on the glass were anything to go by, it had rained once again. He couldn't remember the dream he'd had, but he knew it hadn't been pleasant. His heart was racing, cold sweat made his hair stick to his forehead. Even his shirt was damp, and the first thing Antonio did was peel it off and drop it to the floor.

He went to the bathroom, brushed and washed his face. Then, he almost died of a heart-attack when he went to the kitchenette.

There was a man there. Naked from the waist up, humming to himself as he fiddled with the buttons on the electric kettle. From the white glare of the tube-light, Antonio noticed his dirty blonde hair. He wasn't very tall. Absently, his hand brushed his grey trousers.

"C-Can I help you?" Antonio stammered, and the man whipped around. He had the largest, bushiest eyebrows the Spaniard had ever seen, and leaf green eyes. Who the heck was he? There were only three rooms in this flat, so he couldn't have been a mystery flatmate.

"Good lord, you startled me." He had an extremely pronounced English accent. "My name's Kirkland. Arthur Kirkland."

"…Carriedo. Antonio Carriedo," the Spaniard copied, offering him the smallest of grins. Arthur's lips twitched upwards in mild amusement. "I don't mean to be rude," Antonio continued, "But…what are you doing here?"

"Oh, hmm," Arthur gave him a sheepish smile. "I'm actually with Francis. Met him yesterday at the restaurant where he works."

"Ah."

There was an awkward silence, broken only when Arthur turned around and asked, "So, would you like some tea?"

Tea. Hot. Smoke. Fire. Blood.

"No, thank you." Antonio went over to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of milk. It was cold. Reassuringly cold. He poured himself a glass. Arthur made his tea in silence, and the two of them sat at opposite ends of the table. The obligation to speak was heavy in the air, but neither of them knew what to say.

"So…" Antonio began, "Are you a boyfriend, or…?"

Arthur laughed. "Goodness, no. Like I said, I just met him yesterday."

"Ah."

Antonio wished he was wearing a shirt. He hadn't expected the company of a stranger. Right now, the disgusting, shiny scar on his chest was far too visible. He really, really hoped Arthur wouldn't ask about it. He hated talking about that fire. He hated having to remember it. As it was, Antonio was finding it impossible to forget that day. Its horrors.

Several minutes passed like this, in tangled, awkward silence. Finally, Arthur cleared his throat and muttered, "Well, it's nice meeting you."

"You too."

And the Englishman ambled back into Francis's room and shut the door behind him.

Antonio went to the bathroom shortly after, and got ready for work. He had to be there at nine, when the café opened. Elizabeta would help him for the first week, and then he had to learn to do things on his own. He wasn't terribly excited about it, but he needed the money. Before, he used to love his job. Teaching students gave him unparalleled joy, even if some of them could be really annoying. They liked him, and he was a good teacher. But a decent teaching position was hard to come by over here, and Antonio really, really, really couldn't afford to be picky.

In the shower, he absently traced his scars. It had become a habit. There were just so many of them. The medical bills had almost destroyed him. And sometimes, the old wounds still stung. He dried himself and wore his clothes. The marks on his skin were completely covered by the cloth.

But they were still there, weren't they?

* * *

The people at _The Hungarian Café _were extremely friendly. There was Elizabeta, the owner and manager, Tino, Yao, Carlos, waiters, and Ivan, the bartender. Ivan was a little frightening, but that was probably because he was so large. He seemed nice enough. The kitchen was run by a dark-haired woman with brown eyes.

He liked all the people, but utterly loathed the kitchen. There was too much fire and heat. He could smell it in the air. Tino helped him understand the rules of the job, explained the menu card and how the tipping system worked. "Don't be nervous," Tino assured, "We're all like family here."

Sure, but Antonio was still weary of entering the kitchen. He had to, of course. That was the problem. He would tense up every time he saw an open flame, but it helped to count backwards from one-hundred. The routine was calming, and he would alternate between counting in English and Spanish, whispering the words under his breath. He'd even sing Spanish songs softly, only for his ears.

He liked speaking to the diners, though. Antonio had excellent people skills, and Elizabeta was very impressed with how he managed to pacify an irate customer and exact a handsome tip from him too.

Antonio worked there every day, from nine in the morning to one in the afternoon, and from three in the afternoon to seven in the evening. He would wait tables, serve drinks, and sometimes, when they were short-staffed, sweep the floor. Two weeks later, he was no less comfortable with entering the kitchen as he was before, but as long as there wasn't a fire right in his face—and obviously, there never was—he felt like he could handle it. If it got too bad—and sometimes, it really did—he would excuse himself for a few minutes and lock himself inside the giant walk-in freezer. The cold helped. It really, really helped.

By the time he was done with work, evening would start to set in. On his way home, he'd walk past the creepy-looking dance studio, never going too close for fear of hearing the lovely Latin music again.

He'd been having different dreams, lately. Dreams of his parents dancing in the kitchen, before being swallowed whole by a hungry, angry fire. He would still wake up shaking and sweaty, but he'd also often find himself humming a Salsa rhythm or tapping his fingers to the tune of a Samba beat.

It was three weeks into his job when he noticed Lovino for the second time.

* * *

Feliciano worked as a tour guide in an art museum. He loved what he did, and Ludwig envied that. Ludwig himself was an engineer. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but he was starting to find the profession repetitive and dry. Sure, he was very good at what he did, but that didn't mean he enjoyed it. But then, what else would he do? Ludwig couldn't see himself as being anything but an engineer. Feli would often try to think up alternative professions for him, but it was just no use.

Ludwig worked long hours, and it was rare for him to get home before his husband. Feli would always have lavish dinners prepared for him, and on those rare days when Ludwig was home at a reasonable hour, they'd eat together, often not saying a word. He liked this the best. Feli was rarely ever quiet, but even he would fall silent sometimes, just happy with each other's company.

Lately, however, this routine had been thrown out of whack. Not because of Lovino. Even when the elder Vargas was at home—and he always was—he was always shut away in the guest bedroom. On the few occasions when Ludwig had tried to make conversation with him, he was rewarded with cold, unhealthy silences. Lovino had never been the quiet type, but these days, he was as undisruptive as a feather.

The schedule had been messed up for one very simple reason. Not Lovino.

But Lovino.

Ever since they went out for dinner at that café, Lovino had been extremely fidgety. As though he was expecting to be attacked. Then one morning, Feliciano went to make breakfast, to find that it had already been prepared. A cheese quiche for Feli, and potato pancakes for Ludwig. The kitchen had been swept until the countertops gleamed. On the table, Lovino had left a note. _Gone to buy groceries. Will be back soon. _

And that was just the start of it. Every morning, they'd wake to find that Lovino had spent all night cooking, doing the laundry, sweeping the house, polishing the silverware, scrubbing the floors. Groceries would magically reappear the day before they ran out. Ludwig even discovered, with mild horror, that his underwear had been ironed and folded. All the housework that Ludwig and Feliciano did together was now being done overnight by Lovino. Lovino, who would seldom emerge from his room during the day.

Feliciano marvelled at this. "It's so nice to see him take an interest in things again," the Italian had commented happily.

Ludwig was not so easily convinced. If he didn't know any better, he'd think that this behaviour was almost manic. Ludwig would see raw desperation in the shiny counters and sparkling glasses. He didn't mention this to Feli; he didn't want to make his husband unnecessarily upset. What if Ludwig was wrong?

But his fears were confirmed one evening when Ludwig came home before Feliciano. Feli had said he'd be late, because of some work party. He'd asked Ludwig to come, but the German had flat-out declined. He didn't want to make polite conversation, not after a long day of mundane work.

The German took out his office shoes by the door and wore his house slippers, setting his briefcase down on the couch. It was only six in the evening. Ludwig really was home early today. As had become custom of late, the house was in sparkling condition.

He heard noises from the kitchen. The furious _thudthudthudthud _of a knife hitting a chopping board. A bad feeling came to him as he decided to investigate.

Lovino was chopping tomatoes with so much fervour that it was amazing he hadn't sliced off his own thumb. _Thudthudthudthud_, went the knife. His whole body was shaking slightly. There was a pot of boiling water on the stove. A plate of mashed potatoes on the counter. _Thudthudthudthud. _He decimated one tomato, cleanly swiped it off the board and into a bowl, took another tomato, and began the process again.

"Lovino," Ludwig began in greeting, but it was the wrong thing to do.

_Thudthudthu—_

The brunet suddenly cussed in Italian as a plume of red burst from his finger and splattered all over the chopping board. He turned swiftly to face Ludwig, and his face paled. Eyes widening in panic, he snapped, "Fuck, fuck, the tomatoes are ruined now."

Ludwig raised his arms to pacify the Italian. Manic. Downright hysterical. The German had been right all along.

"Oh fuck, they're covered in blood. Shit, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry!" His accented English turned to garbled Italian as tears flooded his eyes. His thumb was still dribbling blood, but it had clotted. Lovino sunk to the floor, still sobbing. "Sorry, sorry, sorry, I've ruined everything, I've ruined everything! There's no way you want to keep me here, I'm such a fucking loser. My bags are packed, I should just—"

"_Mein Gott,_" Ludwig whispered in alarm at the sight before him. Louder, he said, "Lovino, please, you have to calm down." He approached the Italian. "Let me look at your thumb." But Lovino's whole frame was quaking, and he was beyond comprehensible. It took all of Ludwig's nerve to keep his cool.

He began by speaking to Lovino in soft German, the way Gilbert used to calm him after a nightmare. A normal Lovino would have disdained this, but the Italian was utterly devastated right now. He didn't even make a face. Cleaning the wound was easy enough; it wasn't too deep, and all it needed was a scrub with antiseptic and a band-aid.

By the end of it, Lovino was sitting on the kitchen floor with his head in his knees. The water on the stove had all but evaporated, and Ludwig quietly turned it off. "Lovino, why don't we go get some air?" he questioned, dumping the ruined tomatoes into the bin. The Italian didn't protest when he was gently led into the car.

They sat in silence as Ludwig drove. He didn't have any idea where he was going, but the cool evening air splashed against their faces, and Lovino's tear tracks died. He seemed to have calmed down.

"Fuck. What a scene," he muttered.

Ludwig glanced at him from the corner of his eyes. "Indeed. Do you feel any better?"

"Not really."

"Are you really that worried we're going to throw you out on the street?" the German asked with a sigh.

"I've been an absolute pain in the ass for the both of you." Lovino's eyes went to his lap in guilt. "I've been a complete fucking mess. I don't even know why."

"We have our moments," Ludwig replied easily. "You were there for Feliciano when your grandfather died. He was just as bad, if not worse."

"Must be a Vargas thing," Lovino quipped darkly. "Turning into puddles of tears whenever something bad happens."

Ludwig glanced at him again. "We're not going to throw you out, just so you know. You don't have to slave away to keep the house so tidy, like some kind of silent, invisible manservant."

Lovino laughed. It sent a chill down Ludwig's spine. It always unnerved him how the elder Vargas brother could modulate his laughter to make it sound so frightening. He was sarcastic and snappy in general, but when he laughed like that, Ludwig involuntarily became a little bit edgy. The Italian said, "If the roles were reversed, if you had hurt Feli, and if Feli was being a damn mess, moping around my place all the time…I think I would have chucked him out."

"I sincerely doubt that," Ludwig replied earnestly. "You have a rather tough exterior, I know, but your patience is superhuman. I was there, remember? I was there when your grandfather died. I saw the way you handled everything, from the funeral arrangements, to Feli's health. You were in just as much pain as he was, but you took it all silently. You do realise, Lovino, how much I respect you."

"Really?" Lovino tilted his head to one side, a disbelieving smirk on his face.

"Yes."

"Liar."

"I am not lying."

"Whatever." He paused, and then said, "I'm sorry for all the shit I've caused for both of you."

"Don't worry about it. You're family."

"Family doesn't freeload. Not like this."

Ludwig was about to reply, but he felt the car strain. Even Lovino noticed, because the vehicle spluttered and began to limp, the smooth cruising turning into a desperate crawl down the road. In five minutes, the car had completely broken down.

"Brilliant," Ludwig snapped.

Lovino stepped out, and Ludwig followed suit. The Italian threw open the bonnet. "I thought your German cars were supposed to be excellent," he muttered tersely.

"It's an old car." Ludwig looked around, trying to understand where exactly they were. "Oh, look at that. _The Hungarian Café._" He noticed Lovino follow his gaze to the little establishment across the road.

"Great. Cheers. Now what?" Lovino crossed his arms and gave Ludwig a flat look.

Ludwig whipped out his phone. "I'm going to call a mechanic. Then I suppose we can have a beer."

"Wine."

"_Ja, _whatever you want."

As Ludwig pressed the phone to his ear, Lovino began to look around. The car had broken down right in front of _Shal We Danc? _The Italian could hear chirpy music coming from behind the door. Despite himself, the Italian dared to walk up to it. Just to hear the music a bit better.

That was Latin music, wasn't it? He tried to imagine what dance it could be for. Rumba? Salsa? Salsa was a Latin dance, wasn't it? Lovino kept approaching the door, the music getting louder and louder as he did.

Lovino didn't know how it had happened, but before he even understood what was making him do this, he'd pushed the door open and entered the dance class.

The first thing that hit him was the light. While it was poorly lit outside, Lovino's eyes were assaulted by a warm yellow glow of lamps hanging from the ceiling. He blinked in surprise. What the heck was he doing here?

The room was large, with a polished wooden floor and benches along the walls. There was a drinking water station on one end and a stereo system on the other. There were only five other people in the room. Four of them had been divided into pairs, and were doing some sort of spinning movements. One of them was standing in between the two sets of dancers, giving comments and encouragement.

This man was tall, dark-skinned, with chocolate eyes and a toothy smile. His black hair was only a little bit sweaty. He wore a pair of faded blue jeans, and a white shirt under a green and yellow vest. The first couple of buttons were undone, revealing the makings of a toned chest and what looked like the tooth of a lion around his neck. Lovino hoped it was a fake.

The man glanced up as the Italian entered, his eyes widening in surprise. Even his four students momentarily faltered.

"Keep dancing, guys," he told them, before swiftly walking up to Lovino. He grinned, shaking Lovino's hand. "Hello. I'm Luciano da Silva. I'm from Brazil, haha. I'm the teacher here. And you must be…?"

Lovino just blinked at the man for a few stupid seconds before choking out a feeble, "'Vino."

He leaned closer. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch that?"

The Italian cleared his throat. "Lovino. Vargas. Italy."

"Ah, hello, Lovino! Tell me, how can I help you?"

Excellent question. Fucking million dollar question.

Lovino blinked stupidly at the man again.

Luciano da Silva gave him a sympathetic smile. "First time in a dance class, eh? Are you interested in learning? It's a lot of fun!"

"Um…uh…no."

Luciano's face didn't fall, as Lovino had expected. The Brazilian just laughed. "Have you come to watch?"

Sure. He could go with that.

"Yeah. My…my brother's actually thinking off learning," Lovino prattled off, the lie coming to him easier than expected, "And he asked me to check it out, since, you know, he's got work commitments today."

"Oh," Luciano said with a smile. "Sure, of course you can watch. Sit anywhere you like. We're dancing Salsa today." He looked over his shoulder affectionately to his four students, before turning back to Lovino. "Let me know if there's anything I can help you with, Lovino."

The Italian shook his head and sat on the nearest bench, the one closest to the door. "Thanks, this is fine."

"Great." Luciano grinned at him before walking back up to his students, idly saying, "Anna, watch your footwork."

"Right," said a short brunette, "Sorry. The beat's too fast."

"Just focus on the count," Luciano said with an encouraging smile.

This sounded completely foreign to Lovino. He had no idea what they were talking about. All he could do was stare in captivation at the way their bodies swirled across the room. The male leads would dip the women, or spin them, or twirl them. They would skim across the floor, almost like a breeze. Their bodies moved like water, fluid and confident. Occasionally, one of them would stumble. But they would quickly recover, always depending on their partners to carry the step forward for them.

Lovino watched this in unabashed fascination. He'd never actually seen people dance like this. Even on Ludwig and Feli's wedding day, their movements had been awkward and disconnected. Both of them had laughed about it, though, and everyone watching had thought it was adorable. But it hadn't been _dancing. _

The song came to an end, and Luciano dived for the stereo before it began playing something else. "Right, class," he told them, clapping his hands together to get their attention. "Well done. I think we should practice some Jive, because god knows we've been ignoring that for a couple of days now. Sounds like a plan?"

"Aw, come on, Lu," complained one of the men. He was Korean, by the looks of it. "Give us five minutes. My feet are killing me."

Luciano laughed. "Oh, alright. Take a break, then."

There was a collective sigh of relief as the students dispersed. Anna took off her shoes, and her partner, a blonde with a large grin, went straight for the drinking water dispenser. The other two, the Korean man and a girl with hazel hair, went immediately to sit on one of the benches. All four of them would shoot glances at Lovino, but none of them went up to say anything. That was fine. He wasn't feeling too talkative.

Luciano came up to him. "So, what did you think? Would your brother enjoy this sort of thing?"

Lovino shrugged. "You said that was Salsa?"

"Yup. And we'll do Jive, next. Jive's a lot of fun. And then, we break and go home." Sitting beside Lovino, Luciano continued, "Three days a week, seven-fifteen to eight-fifteen."

"Cool."

"The rates are pretty decent, too." He gave a short chuckle. "I mean, they have to be. We'd be totally out of business, otherwise."

"Mm. Yeah. That place with the pathetic name, they're sucking up all your business, huh?"

"_The Spanish Armada_?" Luciano snorted. "It's so stupid. Not all Latin dances even come from Spain. I mean, come on. That's general knowledge. Most come from Latin America, hence the name." He rolled his eyes.

"And the Spanish Armada was a naval disaster," Lovino added. "Why would you name a dance class something like that?"

"True, true. But no matter what we say about it, it's the place to be, these days."

"Why's that?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. I personally think it's because they teach you this cheap, bastardised, showy version of the dances. I've been there a couple of times. They've got an open dance floor on Saturdays. Man, the students there…they're complete idiots. They don't know what they're doing. And me? I've danced all my life. It's in my blood. My dad used to own this studio. It was his dream. So I'll do anything to keep it afloat. But I won't ruin the character of the dances themselves. My dad would rather have this place shut down than have its essence stolen from it."

"Intense," Lovino commented, and Luciano laughed.

"You guys talking about the _Armada_?" the hazel-haired girl called from across the room. She walked up to them and smiled at Lovino.

"Emma, nice to meet you," she greeted.

"Lovino Vargas."

"Yeah, Em, we're talking about those suckers," Luciano muttered. From behind Emma, the Korean fellow walked up, followed closely by Anna and the blonde with the grin.

Lovino was introduced to them in rapid succession. Im Yong Soo, Mathias Køhler, Anna Smith. Korea, Denmark, Australia—or, as she liked to call it, Wy. And Emma was from Belgium.

"You should have seen this place in its heyday," Emma reminisced. Apparently, from the four of them, she'd been around the longest. "It was so amazing. You'd have people from all walks of life coming in here just to dance. For the love of it, you know? And then this stupid _Spanish Armada _crap came up. The only reason they're so popular is because they've won a couple of dance competitions, and they've just had better advertising, that's all. I've been there, too. Lame. Lame as heck. I feel like they make a mockery of dance."

"So now…it's just the five of you? Four, technically, since you're the teacher, Luciano."

"Well, we do have a couple of other people come in. Sometimes, I mean. But they're our old regulars, you know? From my dad's time. What this place needs is new blood, or it's really going to shut down." Luciano ran a worried hand through his hair, but then his chirpiness came right back. "Anyway, not to worry. Come on guys, break's over. Time to Jive, yes?"

Jive was very different. This was three-step Jive, and it looked like a series of hops. The stereo played some sort of American music Lovino didn't recognise, but the dance looked like so much fun, he couldn't help tapping his foot to it anyway.

Lovino almost completely forgot about Ludwig until he happened to feel a vibration in his pocket and took out his phone. Oh, shit. His phone had been on vibrate, and Ludwig had called about four times. He winced.

Luciano had come between Anna and Mathias, and was currently helping them get some sort of spinning step correctly. Lovino hated to disturb them, but walked up to them anyway.

"I have to go. Brother-in-law's going to yell my ears out if I don't. Thanks for having me. Sorry for the intrusion."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Luciano said. "It was wonderful to talk to you, Lovino."

The Italian nodded at him, and then at Mathias and Anna. He didn't bother trying to get Emma and Im Yong Soo's attention; they were far too involved in the dance. "Tell them—" he jerked his head towards the dancing pair—"I said bye."

"Of course," Luciano said. "Come back any time you want."

"Sure."

When Lovino walked out of the dance class, it was with a feeling of wrongness. Something told him that he didn't belong outside; he had to go back in there, he had to listen to the music, he had to watch them dance.

But Lovino exited _Shal We Danc? _and ran right into Ludwig.

* * *

"Hola, good evening! Can I take your order?" Antonio rattled off in mechanical chirpiness at the new customers. He lowered his notepad just a little, and almost dropped it in surprise. "Oh, Senors Beilschmidt and Vargas! It's so nice to meet you again."

Ludwig offered a small smile, but Lovino just scowled. Well, okay. Ludwig said, "Good evening, Antonio. How do you like working here?"

"Oh, it's good fun. The people are lovely." He smiled, and said, "So, what would you like to have?"

"Krombacher, if you don't mind. And Lovino, you'll have…?"

"The house wine," the Italian deadpanned.

"Red or white?"

"Is that even a question?" he sneered. "Red."

Antonio quickly scribbled that down, and asked, "Anything to eat?"

Ludwig looked a little uncomfortable at the question, but gave a very meaningful look towards Lovino. "Maybe you should…?" the German suggested to the Italian.

Lovino rolled his eyes. "Fine, get off my fucking case." His polished golden eyes looked right into Antonio—right into his _soul, _almost—and he said, "A tomato. Sliced."

"…That's all?"

"Yeah, do you mind?" he spat.

Antonio smiled a little, making a note of it. "You like tomatoes, huh? So do I. They're the best."

When Antonio returned with their drinks and a plate of cut tomatoes, he found them arguing about a car. Ludwig was sitting stiff-backed and distant, and Lovino was waving his arms around in the air animatedly, his face red with anger, his Italian accent getting more and more pronounced.

"—not like I'm a child, I can go wherever the fuck I want to go. Anyway, I was _right there._" He pointed vaguely to an establishment across the road. Antonio didn't follow Lovino's gestures. "The car was right fucking outside! And it's all fixed now, isn't it? So what the fuck is your problem?"

"All I'm saying is, you should have _told _me. I was really concerned."

"Oh, the hell you were," the Italian snapped as Antonio set his glass of wine down in front of him. A sudden quiet fell upon the table, and Antonio turned to leave. Except, he felt a hand catch onto his wrist, and the Spaniard turned. "Oi, you, sit the fuck down."

Antonio blinked. "What?"

"He's working, Lovino," Ludwig tried to reason.

"Yeah, good for him. I'm a fucking customer and I'm asking him to pull up a chair and sit the fuck down."

Antonio's gaze swept over to Ludwig, who just let out a defeated sigh. Lovino had an unnatural fire in his eyes. There was not a trace of humour on his face. A little bit nervous, Antonio pulled up a spare seat and settled in, all too aware of the fact that if Elizabeta caught him now, he was going to get shouted at. As it was, Tino, from across the floor, was frowning at him in confusion. He'd seen everything. Antonio caught his eye, and shrugged.

"_Si_?" the Spaniard asked, hesitant.

"You dance." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. "I know that now. I wasn't sure at first, but now I am."

"Lovino—" Ludwig began.

"I wasn't talking to you, was I, Potato Bastard?"

"Um…" Antonio started. "I used to dance, actually. But I don't anymore."

Lovino took an exaggeratedly long sip of his wine. He set the glass down on the table. "You want to know how I figured it out?"

"Okay?"

"It's the way you walk. Very, very graceful. People don't usually walk like that. And then, I was there—" Lovino pointed towards the derelict little dance class across the road. "And I saw the way those people walked. And I knew. I'm a journalist, and a fucking good one. These things rarely escape my notice."

"Uh…"

Lovino took another slow, thoughtful sip of his wine. "That's all I wanted to say, really. That you're a dancer."

Ludwig just sighed once more. But Antonio was staring at the Italian with wide eyes. His mouth was hanging slightly open. Lovino watched all of this very, very intently. Finally, the Spaniard managed to choke out, "I don't dance anymore."

"No, you don't," Lovino muttered. A short silence. "Thanks for the conversation." He drained his glass of wine. "Mind if I have a refill?"

* * *

"What the hell was that about?" Tino asked as soon as he caught Antonio alone.

"I literally have no clue." Haltingly, Antonio narrated the course of events. He didn't like the thought of a total stranger uncovering the fact that yes, indeed, he was a dancer. Or he used to be, anyway. It was one of those things that belonged to a happier past. Not the gloomy hole he'd managed to get stuck in right now. "Maybe he'd had too much to drink." But from the look in Lovino's eyes, Antonio knew that it wasn't so simple. Lovino had been as sober as they came.

* * *

"So, that was an interesting conversation," Ludwig commented as they drove back home. The German hadn't had that much beer, so driving wasn't a problem. Lovino was sulking, his head pressed against the glass of the car window.

"Yeah? I don't know what came over me."

The German snorted. "It sounded almost like you were…I don't know, it sounded like a combination of flirting and threatening, if that makes any sense."

"It doesn't." Lovino was scowling again. "And I wouldn't _flirt _with anyone that way." But he fell silent, and a gloomy chill descended upon the car. What was left unsaid was, _I wouldn't flirt with anyone after Heracles. _

"Mind if I ask you what this new-found curiosity with dance is all about?"

"Please, don't phrase it that way." Lovino shot Ludwig a look of distaste. "I wouldn't say it's curiosity. I think it's pity, actually."

"For that little dance class?"

"Yeah. I told you, those people seemed really sincere about the craft. And the place is going to collapse on them, I swear."

"Are you thinking of writing an article on them? Creating awareness?"

"You mean doing a feature? No. Don't feel like it."

"You need to get back to work sometime, Lovino."

"Fuck off, Ludwig. I can't deal with that shit right now."

The German sighed, but didn't pursue it. Lovino was too complicated for him to be able to handle, sometimes. But Lovino had seemed almost haunted when he'd stepped out of the dance class earlier that day. Ludwig didn't want to ask him. The Italian would just deny everything anyway. That was simply how Lovino was.

* * *

Antonio stopped outside the dance class before he left for home after work. It was shut. The neon lights were off. It looked like a washed-out hole in the wall. He tried to imagine this place as being popular and cool, but he simply couldn't. What would it have looked like? Bright lights flashing everywhere, loud music and the ceaseless stream of students? Maybe…but Antonio simply couldn't picture it.

His parents would have loved it, Antonio figured. They hated things that were outwardly popular, but lacked substance. He tried to imagine his parents as he best liked them; young and happy, with his mother blushing and his father with that cheeky smile, as the spun across the kitchen that Sunday morning. But the memory was becoming tainted with the nightmares that had begun to plague him. A fire sweeping them away. Ashes, explosions, blood, scars. In his dreams, they were dancing as the flames closed in on them, his mother with her blush, his father with that smile. Completely oblivious to their imminent doom.

Antonio shook his head. And then, without really realising what he was doing, the Spaniard began to tap his foot. One-two-three, five-six-seven. Step, tap, step, step, tap, step. The Salsa basic. Did he still remember the moves? He tried spinning in place. It was embedded into his consciousness like it belonged there. Step, tap, step, step, tap, step.

As slowly as he begun, he stopped.

Antonio felt calm. The sudden realisation would have surprised him, but he just felt too serene right now. All because of a simple Salsa basic step?

Biting back a small smile, he began the long walk back home.

* * *

For Lovino, the days dragged on. He would still lock himself up in the guest bedroom, barely emerging, except to clean the house. He still did that; the incident from before did nothing to deter him. Ludwig kept trying to talk him out of it—there was no need to feel obliged to slave away—but he just spat sarcastic retorts. All of this would happen behind Feliciano's back. Both Lovino and Ludwig knew that if Feliciano found out the actual cause behind Lovino's hard work, he would throw a fit. "Like I'd _ever _kick you out when you're down!" he'd probably shout, with tears streaming down his face.

But even Feli was starting to notice things. For one, Lovino's appetite had decreased even _further. _Once, he fainted. He was having a shower, so he dropped to the floor in the bathroom. It mustn't have been very long, because he was aware of waking up with water streaming on him. When he got dressed, neither Feliciano, nor Ludwig had noticed anything out of the ordinary. Lovino ate a full meal that day. (He threw up most of it later.)

"He even refuses to speak to a therapist," Feliciano muttered one evening. He and Ludwig were sitting on opposite ends of the couch, Ludwig reading a mystery novel, Feli flipping through a cookbook. "I'm getting seriously concerned."

Ludwig sighed, closing his book. He tapped his glasses back onto place on his nose, and slowly said, "Feli…I think I might have something to do with it."

"What do you mean?"

And Ludwig told him about the incident with the chopping board and the knife, Lovino's thirty-minute disappearance when the car broke down, the Italian's behaviour after emerging from that creepy dance class, and the way he forced Antonio Carriedo to talk to him. By the end of it all, Feliciano was looking at him with wide, stricken eyes.

"I should have told you sooner," Ludwig admitted.

"Ve, you should have."

"I'm sorry."

Feliciano was quiet. "Dance classes, you said?"

"_Ja. _He seemed…how do I put it? _Perkier. _Not _happy, _exactly. Just…more lively. More responsive."

"Oh."

And that was where the conversation ended.

* * *

Antonio's life was becoming one massive blur. A repetitive routine. Work, rent, nightmares, work, rent, nightmares. Antonio found Arthur hanging around the house more often—only during the mornings. According to Gilbert, this was an interesting thing. Francis never slept with the same person twice. This _Arthur _was clearly an exception. Gilbert would spend a lot of time with Matthew, of course, but the German would also drag his flatmates out drinking. This became routine too. Stumbling home at some ungodly hour, dead-drunk and spluttering nonsense, only to wake up with a killer hangover the next morning.

One Sunday afternoon, Francis decided to make crème brûlée. When he switched on the blow torch, Antonio fell off his chair in a panicked yell. Another time, a car backfiring somewhere down the street made Antonio curl up in his bed, shaking in terror. Neither Gilbert nor Francis even knew what to do.

"I'm pathetic," Antonio muttered sullenly one morning, after another similar episode involving a broken plate.

"You've been through a traumatic event," Francis reasoned. "Don't be so hard on yourself."

"_Ja, _Franny's right," Gilbert said, throwing an arm around Antonio. "These things take time to recover from."

"Mm."

The only relief came from stolen glances. Sometimes at work, Antonio's eyes would wander towards _Shall We Dance? _Wayward glimpses morphed into humming dance tunes in a soft voice. And with the music, came the memories. He'd sometimes stop outside the little dance class after work, just listening to the music from behind the door. It had become something of an addiction.

Antonio was a little tipsy after finishing half a bottle of wine with Francis. It was one of those rare evenings when the Frenchman was home early. Gilbert was in his room, working on his thesis. They'd offered him the drink, but he'd sneered at them and said that he didn't want 'stupid pansy crap' anyway. While putting the glasses away, the Spaniard accidentally fell into a Jive basic.

Francis stared. "What did you just do?"

And a drunk Antonio laughed. "Jive. It's fun!"

"You know how to dance, _mon ami_?"

"Do I know how to dance?" Antonio snorted, somewhat conceited. "I've been dancing since I was ten. Since I saw my parents Salsa across the kitchen. I stopped after they died, though."

"Oh," Francis said with a seemingly approving nod. "Yes, I see how that solves matters."

"Are you being sarcastic?"

"Yes," Francis sighed with an eye-roll. "Yes, Toni, I am."

* * *

That night, Antonio had a very vivid dream. His parents were dancing again. But this time, they were in an empty ballroom with only one spotlight which kept following them. The music kept changing, and so did their movements. Salsa, Tango, Paso Doble, Jive, Cha-Cha-Cha, Samba, Rumba, Waltz…

Antonio couldn't remember if his parents had actually known all these dances. He doubted it. But in the dream, their movements were precise, perfectly timed. Their bodies worked as one, a team, a perfect partnership that did everything in exacting synchrony. Antonio himself knew all these dances, but he'd never had a partner like that.

When he awoke, dance music kept playing in his head.

* * *

"Fuck you, Feliciano, fuck you."

Feliciano wanted to pat himself on the back, but that would require taking his hands off the wheels. Really, though, he deserved every bit of praise he got for his skills in convincing his brother. Lovino had been suspicious from the start, but when his elder brother finally recognised the street, he _really _began to protest. And then, Feliciano told him.

"But it makes you happy, right? Just give it a shot."

"I didn't say that! Nobody said that! Your stupid Potato Bastard husband is making shit up."

"Well, then why did you enter that dance class in the first place?"

Lovino had no response. Why had he entered _Shal We Danc? _The simple truth was staring him in the face. Because the music had called to him. Lovino knew this, and by Feliciano's sneaky grin, his younger brother knew it too. They were two years apart, but there were times when they knew what the other was thinking, almost as if they were twins. Lovino had been so enraptured by the dancing, the sweeping movements across the floor, the grace, the _life _in each step.

And that was why he'd been so miserable since that day. After witnessing such perfection, and knowing he could never be a part of it…

"Just give it a chance." Feliciano's car stopped in front of the dance class. "It's pretty cheap, you know? I already paid for your lesson tonight!"

"This place is a dump," Lovino sulked, crossing his arms.

"I saw _The Spanish Armada. _It was a lot better, although very, very pricey. It's up to you, really, _fratello. _But I just want you to give this a shot. For me? I've been so worried seeing you so upset all the time."

"I hate you. I hate this."

Feliciano smiled at him, squeezing his shoulder. "Thank you."

* * *

"Class, we have two new members joining us today!" Luciano said, his face splitting into a grin. He clapped his hands together. Emma, Im Yong Soo, Mathias and Anna all smiled warmly at Lovino. The second 'new member' hadn't yet arrived.

And then, the door opened, and Antonio Fernandez Carriedo peeked in. "Hola," he said with that sheepish, endearing laugh. "Sorry I'm late. Just got off work." He stepped inside, and his eyes met Lovino's.

He looked startled. Lovino's eyes widened.

"Hello, Antonio," Luciano said. "That's alright, we've not yet started."

"I thought you said you didn't dance," Antonio said softly, a small smile in Lovino's direction.

"Yeah? You said something similar."

* * *

**A/N: **

***Luciano da Silva: A fan character for Brazil that I found on wiki. I take no ownership of him. **

***Anna Smith: A human name I came up with for Wy.**

***Lentamente: This title is the name of a song I found in a Spamano AMV on Youtube. Its artist is Studio 3. The song is in a combination of Italian and Spanish, and the version I heard was sung by two men, almost like it was made for Spamano. **

**What inspired this fic? Several things. I love dancing!Spamano, to begin with. I've read some wonderful fics about this AU, and I just really wanted to write one myself. A fic that helped me develop the premise for this story was **_**The Poison Dance **_**by Scarabsi. Another thing that really motivated me was my own love for dance. I only learned ballroom dancing for a couple of **_**months **_**before I had to stop, but man, I loved it. I just adored it. **

**I've planned this fic as a three-chapter story. The song at the beginning of the chapter is **_**Shall We Dance **_**which is in the movie 'The King and I'. The song is also the title of another movie, starring Jennifer Lopez and Richard Gere. **

**I wanted to depict a relationship of some sort between Ludwig and Lovino. I think that in a Human!AU where Ludwig is married to Feli, Lovi would at least **_**try **_**to get along with him. Also, the name **_**The Hungarian Café **_**has been borrowed from a book I read a while ago. **

**Thank you for reading! Please review :) **


	2. Chapter 2

_ Shall we dance?__  
__On a bright cloud of music shall we fly?__  
__Shall we dance?__  
__Shall we then say, goodnight and mean goodbye?_

* * *

"Do you two know each other?" Luciano asked, raising an eyebrow. Lovino swallowed, his gaze still fastened on Antonio. The Spaniard was smiling, the yellow lights from the room dancing in his irises. He really was exceptionally good-looking.

At once, Luciano received two responses.

"Not really." "_Si_!"

"…Okay. Whatever. Alright, then." Clapping his hands to attention, Luciano said, "While these four—" he motioned towards the other students, who had already begun their dances, "—are practicing, the three of us will run through some basics, okay?"

Lovino was terrified. He could feel the rising panic clawing up his throat. His whole body felt clammy, and his instinct to flee was almost completely overriding his senses. He didn't want to be here. He couldn't do this. He was not a dancer. Just watching those four veteran students—plus confident, graceful Luciano—made Lovino feel insecure, inferior. And there was Antonio, who by his own admission, used to dance as well.

The Spaniard was watching Luciano intently. His eyes would flit across the room in swift motions, as though he was trying to collect and analyse a ton of information all at once. Antonio was dressed in a faded black full-sleeved shirt, and his dancing shoes—yes, actual dancing shoes—looked shabby and had a distinctly forgotten look about them, like he hadn't worn them in a while.

"Let's start with Salsa. Is that okay?"

"_Si,_" Antonio said quietly, lowering his eyes. He then looked towards the other students. "Salsa is fine."

"Great." Luciano clapped his hands together once again, and said, "Well, to begin with, let me say that Salsa's not actually a Latin dance. It originated in New York."

"What?" Lovino stared. Antonio didn't react, except for glancing towards Luciano's face and looking to the floor once again.

Salsa, Luciano said, worked on three counts, with a pause on the forth. Lovino had no clue what that meant. But Antonio nodded silently. "Ignore the music coming from the stereo system," their teacher advised. "It'll just confuse you. Right now, learn the steps. Count with me." And that's how it begun. "One, two, three," the Brazilian spoke slowly. At 'one', he took his right leg back. At 'two', he tapped his left foot. At 'three', he brought his right foot forward again. "Five, six, seven." Left foot forward, right foot taps, left foot back again.

It looked like rocket science.

Luciano smiled sheepishly. "Don't be intimidated. It's really quite simple."

"What happened to four and eight?" the Italian snapped. "One, two, three, _four,_ five, six, seven, _eight._"

"Oh," Antonio said, his voice subdued but his eyes sharp and attentive. "Four and eight are pauses, like Senor da Silva said. You do three steps, then you pause. It's easier to understand when you actually dance."

Their Brazilian instructor raised his eyebrows, giving Antonio a questioning look. "Have you danced before, Antonio?" When the Spaniard's cheeks darkened, Luciano said, "Well, that's brilliant!" Shooting Antonio a grin, he went on, "Why didn't you tell me? What sort of dances do you know?"

"…Quite a few, actually," Antonio replied, his shy voice barely audible over the music. "But I'm out of practice."

"Which ones?"

"Uh…" now, Antonio smiled a little. His eyes crinkled in humour as he laughed in that endearing way. "Salsa, Jive, Rumba, Samba, Paso Doble, Cha-Cha-Cha, uh…what else? Oh yeah, waltz, too." By the end of his little sermon, Luciano was staring at Antonio with wide eyes, his lips pursed to show he was impressed. Lovino was just gaping at Antonio like a goldfish.

"Goodness," Luciano muttered, "You've given me a complex. Do you know the Foxtrot? Or the Viennese Waltz? Because if you do, you know more than I do."

"Haha, no. I wanted to learn the Viennese Waltz, but—" and then he stopped short, shook his head slightly and smiled. "Maybe we should begin dancing?"

"There's no way I'm going to make you learn beginner's steps. Not if you're this experienced." Luciano went up to Emma, tapped her on the shoulder, and basically interrupted the dance. Im Yong Soo didn't look very happy about it. Speaking in low tones, Luciano and Emma shot glances towards Antonio, and finally, the woman nodded. When the instructor returned, he said, "Antonio, just wait until Emma's done with her practice. You can then dance with her for a bit. We'll have to find you a partner, later."

"Uh…sure. But do you mind if I stay here for a bit? I'm really out of practice, and I'd like to get back into the swing of things."

"Of course. Please."

Luciano turned his attention back to Lovino, who'd been standing awkwardly, his arms crossed over his chest. By now, apprehension had completely claimed him. He didn't want to be noticed. If only he could just turn invisible and walk out of here! Stupid Feli and his stupid ideas. Dammit, why did he ever step into this class? Just because the music had a magnetic effect on him? What an idiot he was.

The minutes passed slowly. It was a nightmare, an absolute nightmare. Lovino tried, he really _tried _to copy Luciano. But he kept missing the count, messing up the step, fumbling. His body felt stiff, and it refused to cooperate. He was nothing like the fluid, sweeping dancers practicing at the other side of the room. Lovino felt as though he didn't have any joints. He was just a skeleton without any connecting, movable pieces. He was just a single structure that could not bend or curve or sway, or do anything that the others could.

"Lovino, relax," Luciano said easily, smiling at him. His face held no traces of anger or amusement, just gentle patience. Lovino's fists were balled, his eyes stinging. He couldn't cry in a fucking dance class. _Dio, _he'd never live it down.

Antonio, meanwhile, was keeping to himself. He practiced on his own as he waited for his turn to dance with Emma. He kept sighing in mid-step, his lips moving to the count of the music as he danced. He was just doing the Salsa basic, and though he looked rather unhappy with himself, Lovino thought it was flawless.

"It takes a little while to get into it." Antonio was talking to Luciano about his own problems, but Lovino could have applied that statement to his own situation, too. Luciano turned to the Spaniard, a grin on his lips.

"Oh, you're doing fine," Luciano said, waving a hand dismissively. "A little slower than the music permits, perhaps, but nothing wrong with that. You said you were out of practice, so don't worry about it."

While they spoke, Lovino collected himself. His pulse was soaring, his body was cold, and his brain had shut down. He couldn't do this. He was feeling like an idiot next to all these brilliant dancers. He was out of place; he didn't belong. The Italian had two left feet, two left arms, two left everything. His entire _being _was left; left alone. Alone, alone, alone. And he deserved all the shit people gave him. Oh god, he was such a loser. No wonder Heracles had been cheating on him.

* * *

"How was class?" Feliciano asked when Lovino opened the car door. The Italian threw himself into the passenger seat, belting himself up and crossing his arms in frustration.

"Shut up and drive."

Feliciano frowned. "Lovi? Lovi, what's wrong? You look like you're about to cry."

Indeed, a tear did slip down his face. "I'm never going back there, Feli. I felt like such an idiot." Lovino buried his head in his hands, feeling more vulnerable than he had in a very long time. It was even worse than when he'd just lock himself inside the guest bedroom. Technically, this had been Lovino's first stab at re-entering the real world again. And he'd failed. He'd failed so terribly.

* * *

Antonio walked home slowly, his whole body hurting. He really had lost practice, hadn't he? He felt dead tired, and although it had taken him only a couple of tries to fall into rhythm, he felt like he hadn't done a good enough job. But the dancing itself…

Inside Antonio's heart was a locked room. It used to be open and full of sunlight beaming through windows. But then his parents died, the dancing stopped, and the room doors began to close. The fire had shut it completely, huge metal chains sealing the knobs. Antonio had carried this locked room with him for a long time.

The dancing.

Maybe the key to the lock was hidden somewhere in repetitive, graceful steps.

Still. There was something wrong. He could feel it. His movements today had been…off. There was no other way to put it. He was doing something improperly. It wasn't that he missed the beat; that was bound to happen because of lack of practice. If he listened to enough dance music and practiced as he always did, that issue would solve itself.

No, this went deeper. He couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was, but Antonio was not happy with himself. He had to fix this, and soon. Something about it seemed…sinister. Scarring. Almost evil.

* * *

Three days a week, seven-fifteen to eight-fifteen. Feliciano remembered the schedule. The next class would be held day after tomorrow, and he was hell-bent on making Lovino go. He said as much to Ludwig as the couple got ready for bed. Ludwig was sitting up with his torso against the headboard, reading. Feliciano was brushing his teeth.

"I don't know, Feli. If he says it makes him feel worse about himself, maybe forcing him to go is a bad idea."

Feliciano spat in the basin, letting the toothpaste burn on his tongue for a few minutes before replying, "Well, he needs a push, Luddy. He can't just waste away in his room."

"How are you going to convince him? Your brother is stubborn, you know that."

Feliciano gargled, spit in the basin once again, and said, "I don't know. I'll talk to him. But he's freaking me out, Luddy. He refuses to speak to a counsellor, he barely eats, he barely sleeps, and he's wandering around the place like a little…like a little _house elf_," he finished, using the Harry Potter reference. "Keeping this place spick-and-span because he's worried we'll throw him out. He's lost his job, and the way I see it, he's losing interest in life altogether. I've never, ever, ever seen him like this, and I'm _scared._" At this, Feliciano turned back to the basin, shutting the bathroom door behind him. He heard Ludwig sigh from the bed.

The younger Vargas finished gargling and washed his face, wiping his hands on a towel before going to lie down next to his husband. Ludwig had shut his book, and was looking at Feliciano intently. "You're not going to back down on this, are you, Feli?"

"No. The dancing will help, I'm sure it will! I don't know _why, _but I just have a feeling."

Again, Ludwig sighed. "Okay, then. I have an idea."

* * *

When Antonio got home, Gilbert was sitting at the dining table, typing away on his laptop. He looked slightly irritated at the moans coming from Francis's room. Looking up as Antonio entered, the German said, "Francis has mad game, seriously." But he didn't look particularly happy about it.

"Arthur again?" Antonio raised an eyebrow.

"No, some chick called Joan. _Verdammt, _I can't think. Let's go get some beers." Gilbert shut his laptop with an unnecessarily loud _snap,_ grabbed his coat from the rack and added, "So, how was class? Had fun?"

"Sure, you could say that," Antonio grinned, realising that it was a genuine smile. He hadn't smiled like this in forever. "The teacher seems really nice. And you'll never guess what! Lovino Vargas was there too!"

"What?" As they were stepping out of the door, Gilbert added, "Lovino? What was he like?"

"Looked upset, actually," Antonio replied, frowning. "He's got such a cute face, it doesn't suit him."

Gilbert laughed. "I didn't know you swing that way."

"Well…" Antonio replied, his cheeks darkening.

"It's probably Feli's idea. Trying to get him involved in things again." Antonio listened as Gilbert spoke, thinking. If Antonio hadn't know otherwise, he really would have assumed that the Italian was seriously ill. He looked like he hadn't eaten in a week. He had dark rings under his eyes, his skin was grey, his hair was uncombed and looked dry. All this, because of a break-up? Insane.

They went to a bar down the street. It wasn't like those clubs that Francis and Gilbert always dragged him to. This was a quiet, after-work sort of place. A couple of businessmen here and there. A solemn-faced bartender. Not the sort of place Antonio thought Gilbert liked. Gilbert appreciated chaos and noise a whole lot more.

They ordered beers. Antonio wasn't so fond of the drink, but he had one anyway, listening as Gilbert laughed about his colleagues. Gilbert liked to play pranks on the people he worked with, making him a nuisance to everyone else. But he was so damn good at his job, nobody really made a big deal out of it.

Then, Antonio did something Lovino had emphatically told him not to do. He asked Gilbert about Prussia. "But why did you want to study about an ex-nation?"

"Because it's an awesome ex-nation," Gilbert replied with a smirk, but then his red eyes sharpened with thoughtfulness as he went on, "Think about it, Toni. Here is a landmass that is today part of Germany, Poland, Switzerland, Denmark, Belgium and Lithuania. It was that big. And in the wars, the Prussian army was the stuff of nightmares. Extremely well-managed, disciplined, very strong. But Prussia was _always _teetering on the edge of complete extinction. From the French, from the Russians, from the Swedish…and then it becomes East Germany, loses all its importance, and later, in 1947, it's _executed. _Prussia didn't waste away like an empire. It was murdered. And that's what fascinates me. You've got a country that's had such a profound influence on Europe, and suddenly, overnight, it's gone. Nobody even talks about Prussia anymore. Sad, right?"

"Ah. _Si, _I suppose so."

"Trust me, I never intended to become a historian either. I'd always figured they were a bunch of old, grey-haired vegetables sitting in locked rooms all day, writing theses. Anyway, I was such a lousy student in school. I spent more time in detention than class." Gilbert laughed, running a hand through his silver locks. "At least I've got the hair-colour of a historian down correctly."

Antonio smiled. He didn't know how to respond.

Gilbert kept talking, which was a relief. "I actually found out about Prussia through _Ludwig's_ homework assignment. And I thought, _hey, that's cool. _And then I started paying a lot more attention in European History class, and I actually did well enough to get into a decent college, and, well, here I am."

Antonio drank the last of his beer, and Gilbert ordered another one. "I'm a little jealous," the Spaniard said finally. "You're doing exactly what you want to do in life. You're so…sorted."

"_Mein Gott, _that's the first time anyone's ever said that about me!" Gilbert's loud voice made Antonio flinch.

"What I mean is…well, I used to teach Spanish in high school. And I loved my job. But I can't do that anymore, not in this city. It's a little frustrating." He gave Gilbert a weak smile. More than once, Gilbert had offered to ask around in his own university about Spanish teaching positions, but Antonio had been right; there were none. Not here.

"You're finding it difficult to adjust, aren't you?" the German questioned, giving the Spaniard a sideways glance. "You still wince every time there's a loud noise, or every time it gets too warm."

Antonio lowered his eyes. "You can say it. I'm scared of my own shadow."

"Eh, don't be so hard on yourself. That there is half the problem. Just make sure you're doing things you enjoy. Like this dancing business. I mean, _I _think it's lame, but I think most things are unawesome. If you like it, you should just do it."

"Yeah. I know."

"Good. Another beer?"

"I've barely even begun my second one!"

* * *

Antonio spent a lot of time gazing at _Shal We Danc? _during work the next day.

* * *

"I'll have penne with roasted chicken and radicchio," Feliciano read off the menu, smiling at the waiter. He was a short blonde called Tino. Feli knew that because his name was printed on the pin on his shirt. Tino nodded, quirking his lips upwards and writing down the order on his notepad. "Lovi?" Feliciano asked, "What will you have?"

Lovino had his arms crossed, glaring so fiercely at his younger brother that it took all of Feliciano's willpower to not run away screaming. There was literally no softness to his features; he was furious. He'd been brought to _The Hungarian Café _against his will. Feliciano had known how Lovi couldn't really say 'no' to him. And Feli had made good use of that.

"Nothing."

"Oh come on, _fratello. _You didn't eat breakfast today morning either."

"Yeah, I'm not hungry."

Lovino was _pissed off. _He knew what his brother was doing. He wasn't a complete idiot. Feliciano was playing a mind game. Coaxing him to eat lunch at _The Hungarian Café, _they'd talk about idle things, before Feli would subtly bring the conversation to the derelict dance class across the road, and somehow, he'd be convinced to go tomorrow.

He didn't want to go back. Ever. What had Lovino been thinking? That dance class was ruining the unhealthy but stable equilibrium he'd managed to come to. Before, he was just upset because of Heracles. Now he was upset about feeling like a moron in front of all those genius dancers. That compounded with the bitterness of his break-up, making him think things like, _no wonder Heracles was cheating on me. I'm such a loser. I have no grace. I'm probably horrible in bed, too. I deserve it. I hate myself. I want to die. _

This conflicted terribly with the feeling of _lightness _he got every time he remembered the first evening he'd spent sitting on the bench, watching Luciano teach his class. It had been so beautiful. The way Lovino saw it, the rest of the world was a hail storm, and watching them dance had been his shelter. But he couldn't keep watching them without wanting to be a part of them. And he would never, ever, ever be able to dance as well as they did.

"He'll have tomato soup," Feliciano told the waiter. Lovino was about to shout at his brother for ordering for him, but then stopped before he opened his mouth. Feliciano's amber eyes were cold and determined. He knew that look. There would be no arguing with Feli now. Even Ludwig was terrified of that expression. Feliciano glanced at his brother, just _daring _him to protest.

"Tomato soup it is," the waiter said, writing it down on his notepad. "Anything to drink?"

"Port—"

"The house wine. Red." Lovino was giving the waiter a deadpan stare.

"Excellent choice. I'll be right back with your meals."

When the waiter walked off, Feliciano raised an eyebrow at his brother, but nodded encouragingly. "I'm so happy you agreed to have soup. And the house wine? Is that good? I was going to ask for Port."

"Port is shit."

Feli laughed. "I guess that's true, ve!"

"Then why ask for it?"

"Out of habit, I think. Luddy likes Port."

Lovino swore, shook his head, and muttered, "Teach your damn husband a thing or two about wine, for fuck's sake. That beer is going to kill him, I tell you."

Feliciano laughed again. "So, how's the house wine here?"

"Pretty decent. I think they serve some sort of Primitivo. Can't be sure."

"Ah, no wonder you like it."

"Hmmph."

That was rubbish. Ludwig did not like Port wine. Ludwig didn't like any wine. And what was more, he wouldn't have been able to tell the difference between Port, Merlot or Syrah if his life depended on it. Feliciano had just been trying to elicit a reaction from his brother. He'd had enough of Lovino's subdued, stony behaviour. He wanted his _fratello _back, and he was going to stop at nothing to get rid of this sad, small, semi-anorexic, possibly-depressed bag of bones in front of him. And if that meant Feliciano had to use force, so be it.

Anyway, this had all been Ludwig's grand idea. And Feli knew his brother was onto him, but that didn't mean it wasn't going to work. Feliciano would make it work!

Tino the waiter returned with a pitcher of the _r__osso_ and two glasses. He set it on the table, poured it into the glasses, and said, "Your food should be done in a few minutes. We're having a bit of a slow day, so it got done sooner. Isn't that great?" Sure enough, the outdoor sitting area of the café was nearly empty. Just an old couple sitting in the corner, talking in shushed tones and drinking cups of coffee.

Lovino 'hmmph'-ed again. Feliciano smiled and thanked Tino, who grinned back and walked off.

* * *

Antonio, meanwhile, had been wiping tables in the indoors section of the café. He looked up when Tino entered from outside, empty tray in his hands. The Finn said, "You know that crazy customer who asked you to sit with him the other day? He's back."

The Spaniard snorted. He actually burst into laughter, setting the cloth down on one of the tables and snickering to himself. "That's Lovino Vargas."

"Yeah, I know. Elizabeta knows him through Ludwig and Feliciano. In fact, his brother's with him right now."

"They come here often, don't they?"

"Not really. Actually, it's a surprise that they've come so many times in just a few weeks." Tino sighed, looking at his watch. "Hey, I need to leave early today. Can you wait on them? I have to go run some errands before Berwald gets home. He's coming back from a business trip in Sweden and I wanted to make something nice for dinner tonight."

Antonio looked at Tino, and then his gaze went solemnly to the kitchen doors. To where there was fire and heat and electrical cooking appliances and dangers and explosions and blood and scars and pain and—

"…_S-si, _of course. Don't worry, I'll handle it." All these weeks working in a café, and he was still terrified of entering kitchens.

"Thank you," Tino replied, not noticing Antonio's obvious distress. Or maybe he was ignoring it. Antonio always had this panicked expression on his face when he had to enter the kitchen. Everyone knew the Spaniard's story; things like that never remained a secret for too long. People were too nice to comment on the glaring scars on his arms every time he rolled up his sleeves, though. _Gracias a Dios!_

With a sigh, Antonio walked into the kitchen as Tino went to the bathroom to freshen up before leaving. Kitchen noises made him nervous. The sizzling, boiling, the beeping of the microwave_—like bombs in movies, oh god, oh god—_the chef shouting at the cooks, the general _clangs _that accompanied metallic objects and utensils…Antonio went to the counter and picked up a plate of pasta and soup meant for Table 12. Luckily, it was a slow day, and lunch rush hadn't even begun yet. That's why the kitchen was relatively quiet. Only one of the cooks was actually working.

Carrying the food on a tray, Antonio carefully navigated his way across the dining room, out of the door and to the open-air seating area. And sure enough, Lovino and Feliciano Vargas were sitting at Table 12. The younger brother was talking more animatedly, Lovino just looked as annoyed and sickly as always.

"Hola," Antonio chirped as he approached. "So good to see you again!"

"Ve, Antonio? Oh wow, how have you been!?" Feliciano cried in genuine happiness. Lovino said nothing, staring openly at the Spaniard.

_Perfect, _thought Feliciano. If Gilbert was to be believed, Antonio was also going to the same dance class. It had been Ludwig's plan, but now, Feliciano would be executing it with almost military precision. Lovino wouldn't go to this dance class without someone having to drag him there, at least initially. And even if Feli and Ludwig drove him there kicking and screaming, he would be completely miserable unless he made some friends.

Which was why this plan was genius.

As Antonio set the food on the table before them, he answered, "I'm okay. And you two?" Glancing at Lovi, he added, "You're coming to class tomorrow, right?"

Bingo.

His _fratello _frowned so deeply that the expression almost looked carved, like he was made of stone. A statue. "No. Dancing isn't my thing."

Antonio chuckled. "That's not true. Dancing is everyone's thing. And if you don't like it, it means you're doing it wrong."

"Yeah, well, not everyone's a fucking pro like you are."

"That's not what I mean." Antonio's smile was soft. "I wasn't talking about talent or skill or practice," he added simply. Seeing their empty wine glasses, Feliciano watched his green eyes widen just the slightest bit. "I'll get some refills." And he turned and walked out.

Lovino stared after him. "See what I mean?" he muttered softly.

"Ve?"

"Did you see the way he turned? On the palms of his feet? Did you _see _the way that asshole walks, Feliciano?"

"…Um…no?" What his brother on about now?

"He was probably born with dancing shoes," Lovino replied in an undertone, sighing in frustration as he leaned back against his chair and closed his eyes. "_Dio, _I'm so tired."

"You haven't done anything."

"Yeah."

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, Lovino with his head back and his eyes closed, Feliciano chewing his pasta. Lovino hadn't touched the soup. But before Feli could do anything about it, Antonio returned with a fresh pitcher of wine.

Lovino opened his eyes. "Bastard, what did you mean? You said something about how dancing's not got anything to do with talent or skill."

"Oh," Antonio said simply, pouring Lovino's glass. "Of course, it takes lots of practice and hard work, but if you ask me, there's more to dance than just moving to music. It's more…it's more significant than that." Antonio frowned slightly, biting the tip of his tongue as he tried to form sentences. "Ah…how do I put it? My Mamá would say it's _emoción_. Um, emotion. The, uh…soul. If you ask me, real dance has soul. It doesn't have to be classical or ballroom or something that formal. It can be anything; what matters is how it makes you feel. And if it doesn't make you feel good, then you're doing it wrong."

Feliciano couldn't remember the last time his brother had looked at someone this intensely. Lovino's eyes of shining gold were trained right into Antonio's. They were devoid of anything obvious, but Feli was sure he could discern a calculating, pensive glint in them. Lovino was studying Antonio. Lovino was dissecting him down to the very atoms of his being.

At length, his brother finally responded.

"…Yeah. Thanks for the wine."

Antonio blinked, a little confused. Then he looked at the newly refilled wine glasses, and the half-empty pitcher on the tray, and said, "You're welcome."

"You can leave the pitcher here."

"Okay." And Antonio obeyed without another word.

* * *

As the day progressed, it simply got worse. It had started out pretty decently. No nightmares, which was a first. And Antonio had actually been able to consume a lukewarm cup of coffee handed to him by Francis. Sure, he had to wait until it cooled down to room temperature, but he could actually hold the warm cup in his hands without having a panic attack. That was progress!

So really, Antonio couldn't understand what triggered it. It couldn't have been a song, right? Because someone's _ringtone _could not be enough to set him off. Right? _Right_?

Antonio's morning shift ended at one. The Vargas brothers had left only a short while ago. Even Yao went off duty along with Antonio, and the two of them chatted mildly about things as they untied their aprons and took off their name-tags. Yao was telling him about some renovations at his place, because the roof was leaking and the _stupid raining weather _was making his floor into a swimming pool. Antonio nodded and smiled sympathetically, looking at the perpetually overcast sky and saying, "_Si, mi amigo, _it really does rain too much over here."

"Did you know they're saying there might be a hailstorm tonight?" Yao complained. "Ugh, I hate this sort of weather. I feel like a wet sponge."

Antonio laughed, but secretly, he couldn't help but feel a sense of pure joy. Hail? Rain? Brilliant. That meant no heat. Cold was safe. Cold was secure. He pulled out his stupid black tie. The uniforms the waiters had to wear were pretty formal. A white shirt, black tie, shiny shoes, black trousers, a name-tag, and a chequered green and white apron. Despite the homeliness of _The Hungarian Café, _it was a pretty upmarket place.

Antonio and Yao stepped out of the bathrooms together, and that was when the other man's phone burst to life.

_BURN BABY, BURN._

Antonio stopped in mid-step, his eyes widening in horror. Who cared about the song's actual meaning? The only line that he could register was _burn burn burn burn—_smoke, fire, explosions, blood, scars, destruction, fire, burns, heat, pain, blood, burn, baby, burn—

"ANTONIO!" someone shrieked. Vaguely familiar. A female voice. Hands on his shoulders. Male hands. Yao's hands. His phone was turned off. Female voice. Someone pushed Yao aside. Elizabeta.

She hovered over him. "Shit, Antonio, are you alright?"

He blinked at her. It was hard. He couldn't focus on her face, not for a whole minute. When he finally did, he noticed green eyes brimming with concern as she knelt over him. Knelt over? Oh? Had he fallen? Oh, yes, he had. He'd just slid to the floor, trembling in fear, hyperventilating just a little, _burn baby, burn_.

"Look at me, Antonio, now." Her voice was firm, her palms cupping his face as he brought his eyes to meet hers. "Look at me. Are you alright?" When he didn't immediately respond, she whipped around and barked, "Carlos, call a doctor."

"…No…" he finally murmured, his voice sounding so pathetically weak that it made him want to crawl up into a ball out of shame.

She looked at him, giving him a severe look. "Now, Antonio, I don't know what's happening to you, but you need medical attention—"

"No," Antonio replied, his voice sterner. He pushed himself up, ignoring how his whole body swayed. He felt so enormously drained he couldn't even believe it. Just five minutes ago, he'd been perfectly fine. _Burn, baby, bur—_he needed to enter that fucking freezer.

"Where are you going?" Elizabeta asked sharply as she moved to stop him. He walked right past her, steeling his resolve as he always did when he entered the kitchen.

"The walk-in freezer," Yao muttered softly. "He does that sometimes."

"What? Why?"

But Antonio didn't care to listen to the rest of the conversation. The freezer was huge, enveloped in some sort of blue-scale colour theme. Or so it felt, from the pale blue ice shards all over the place. The food—fruits, vegetables, meat, grain, all of it seemed tinted in blue light. Antonio shivered as he closed the huge metal door shut behind him. This was good. The cold was good.

Oh, he was so tired.

Once more, he slid to the ground. Voluntarily, this time. The floor, too, was dry and cold. Cold was good. Cold was safe. Cold kept the fire away. Antonio groaned, burying his head in his knees as the memories assaulted him anew.

The hospital needles. Bandages. The roaring agony on his skin that had become a constant companion. The resounding _boom _that his ears still heard, even though days had passed since the explosion. The colours red, yellow, orange, black. All somehow interconnected with fire. Fire. The thing that burnt away his life. Everything he'd ever been happy about. Every good memory.

Everything.

"Hey."

He didn't realise when Elizabeta entered, but he looked up when she put a hand on his shoulder.

"Antonio?" she said.

"…_Si_?" he cracked a smile, trying to be as happy as he could. "Sorry. I mustn't have eaten properly this morning. Hence the blackout, haha."

"It's not funny," she gently reprimanded, giving him a motherly but firm look. "Antonio, I don't know why you keep coming in here, but I'm not going to ask. Okay?"

He nodded, shocked and relieved.

"But you're going to do me a favour."

"…Okay."

"You're going to eat. Molly"—one of the chefs—"Is making something light for you to nibble on. After that, Carlos is going to drive you home. And I don't want to see you here for your evening shift. _If _you feel better tomorrow, only _then_ are you going to come for work. Okay?"

"I'm fine," Antonio protested weakly.

"No, you're not. I don't know what's wrong, but you're not fine. And you're going to do as I say." Elizabeta's expression just dared him to argue. Antonio found himself lowering his eyes.

"Okay, Miss Elizabeta."

"Good. Can you stand?"

"…_Si, _but…" Antonio swallowed, looking around the freezer nervously. "Do you mind if I sit here for a few more minutes?"

She frowned slightly, but then nodded. "Okay. Five minutes. Then I'll come get you."

"Okay. Thank you."

"Don't worry about it."

* * *

When Carlos dropped him home, Antonio collapsed onto his bed and slept through the day, not even waking up for dinner.

And, of course, he had nightmares.

* * *

The next day, at exactly six-thirty in the evening, Lovino went up the Feliciano. His hair was washed, and he was wearing freshly laundered clothes. "I thought you were dropping me to that stupid dance class."

Feliciano gaped at his brother in blind surprise for almost a full minute. And then he spluttered, "V-ve, yes I am!"

* * *

It happened after the second week of class.

Feliciano would drive his brother to _Shal We Danc? _three days a week, and each time, Lovino would return feeling sullen and miserable. No matter what he did, he could never get the steps right. And it bothered him how everyone else was so damn good at it. Antonio was such a pro, he sometimes took over for Luciano; if the Brazilian was trying to teach Lovino something, the Spaniard would help Anna with her footwork or Mathias with his turns.

Since there were only two girls in class, Antonio had to wait for Im Yong Soo and Mathias to finish their dances with Emma and Anna, before practicing with one of them himself. Luciano was always very apologetic about it. And in those rare times when the girls were free, they'd come to Lovino to help him dance. They'd just do simple steps; the basic, a twirl, nothing more. But he was so clumsy and ill-at-ease that he'd either miss the beat, or accidentally step on them.

After the fourth time of crushing Emma's foot, he stopped, his eyes full of unshed tears. The girl looked up, alarmed, before putting a hand on his elbow. "Hey, it's alright! You're just learning. This kind of thing is perfectly normal."

"Yeah," Lovino muttered, looking away. He couldn't let anyone see him cry. That would be too mortifying.

When he was able to collect himself, he found Antonio staring at him from across the room. His green eyes were pensive. Lovino felt exposed under his gaze. He was glad when Antonio looked away.

This happened a couple of times. Lovino would catch Antonio glancing at him, wearing the same studying look as before. It was unnerving. "Hey, bastard," Lovino hissed at him after class once, "What's your problem, huh?"

"What do you mean?" Antonio asked, blinking at him.

"You keep fucking staring at me, and it's creepy."

Antonio frowned in confusion. "Oh? I'm sorry, Lovino. I was just curious to see how your dancing was coming along."

"Well, it's shit," Lovino growled before turning his back to the Spaniard and ending the conversation. To his surprise, Antonio didn't pursue it either.

Once, during their break, Lovino was nursing his feet as he sat on a bench. Emma came up to him, closely followed by Anna. The girls sandwiched him between them on the bench, one of them sipping water, the other taking off her heeled shoes.

"You look miserable," Anna commented. "Aren't you enjoying the dances?" At this, both the girls gave him sideways looks that made Lovino feel a little unsafe.

"I can't dance to save my life," he replied darkly, his eyes turning to the floor.

"Well, you _are _just a beginning," Anna replied, nonchalant. "It's okay to suck when you're new to it!"

"That's true," Emma agreed, "But you also haven't found yourself the perfect dance partner."

"Oh, yeah," Anna squealed. "Everything will fall into place once you have the right partner. Take Mathias and I, for instance. I mean, it's only been a year for us, but when we dance with each other, it's…I don't know, it feels right. Perfect synchrony."

"Same with me," Emma said, "Im Yong Soo's my best friend. When we dance, we can always tell if the other is getting tired and we can fill each other's roles. Sort of. I mean, we just _fit._"

"That's the most romantic, Hollywood-esque bullshit I've ever heard," Lovino muttered.

"Ah, no, no! It's true!"

All three of them turned to their right, where Antonio had been drinking from a bottle of water. He now held the thing in one hand as his eyes glittered in rarely seen excitement. He approached them, saying, "_Lo siento, _I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but it's true! You need the perfect dance partner. And then everything will fall into place."

"Oh god, not you too," the Italian snapped.

"My parents, for instance," Antonio went on, ignoring Lovino's comment, "They didn't dance that much. Well, they knew how to dance, but they weren't professionals or anything. But they were so good together, that you'd think they were born dancing."

From the look on Antonio's face, something was becoming clearer. He wasn't just talking about dance. He was talking about...about something more. Lovino was sure of it. The Italian said, "Now you're just going on about their relationship."

"Of course he is," Anna said, blinking at Lovino like she thought he was stupid. "You thought we were talking about ballroom dancing? Well, yes, we were, of course we were. But it's about the connection you share with your partner; that's the important thing."

"Yeah," Emma said with a smile. "Do you have a _dance partner_, Lovino?" The question was implying more than just having someone to dance with.

Lovino felt his heart skip a beat in fear. Something must have shown on his face, because Antonio said, "You don't have to answer that…"

"No," he muttered, "I mean, it's okay. I used to have one, Emma. If we're still talking about relationships, that is. But he went whoring around town and I found out a month before our wedding. So, yeah."

"Oh," Emma said, and Anna let out a low whistle.

Antonio sighed quietly, leaning against the wall.

Emma spoke. "Well, you can do much better than him, Lovino. Don't worry. You'll find someone."

"Yeah."

Later, after class, Lovino was waiting for his brother to pick him up when Antonio quietly came up to him and asked, "Hey, are you alright?"

"Yeah," Lovino replied, staring into the night. He pulled his collar upwards, trying to fight the cold. The weather was cooling down. Soon, it would be winter. Christmas. The first Christmas in five years that he'd be spending without Heracles. He didn't think he could handle the thought of it.

"Are you sure?"

He looked at Antonio now. The Spaniard was wearing a scruffy old shirt, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. His shoes were as scratched and shabby as ever. Everything about him looked worn down and beaten. Antonio had the look of a man who was trying to smile through a gunshot wound.

"Yes, goddammit." Even to Lovino, the words were weak and lacking any fire. Then, his mobile phone rang. It was Feliciano. He answered it.

"_Hello? Ve, Lovi, you'll never guess what. Luddy's car broke down and they're saying it'll take at least two hours to repair. Can't pick you up. Can you come home on your own? The train station's pretty close by, right? What about a taxi?"_

"The next time that Potato Bastard talks about German engineering, I'm going to hit him," Lovino replied irritably. On the other end, Feliciano laughed.

"_Yes! Italian cars are better, ve! But will you be okay coming home on your own?"_

"Yeah, I'm not a child, dammit. See you when I see you." And he cut the call. When he looked up, Antonio was still standing beside him. Everyone else had already left.

"Turns out, Feliciano can't pick me up," Lovino muttered, looking around. "The train station's that way, isn't it?" he pointed vaguely to somewhere down the street. Most of the restaurants were still open, it wasn't that late. But most places never worked past eleven, so some of these eateries would be shutting for the night. _The Hungarian Café, _across the road, was still buzzing. But Lovino could see a couple of customers trickle out after their dinners.

"_Si, _that's what Elizabeta says," Antonio replied, bringing Lovino's attention back to his predicament.

"Great." And when he began walking, he found, to his enormous irritation, that Antonio was following him. The Italian glared. "Stalking me now?"

Antonio laughed. "I'm going this way too."

"Oh."

They walked in silence. It wasn't awkward or uncomfortable. It held no emotion at all, in fact. Neither of them felt the need to break it. It was simply a silence, as direct, as plain as it could get. Antonio shivered a bit, stuffing his hands deeper into the pockets.

"I don't understand what I'm doing wrong," Lovino said finally, despair colouring his tone.

"Hmm?" Antonio glanced at him.

"With these stupid dances, I mean. I'm such a screw-up. I know the steps, I _know _them! But I keep missing the beat or stepping on someone or tripping! Ugh!" The more he spoke, the more irritated with himself he got. Lovino had no idea why he was telling any of this to Antonio. Maybe it was because the Spaniard looked exactly how Lovino had been feeling for more than two months now.

" _Ay, amigo, _to be honest with you, we're in the same boat. I can't understand what I'm doing wrong either."

Lovino stared. "_You_? You're a fucking pro. What are _you _complaining about?"

Antonio chuckled. "Don't say that, Lovino. I'm really out of practice. And even though I do work at it, for some reason, I can't seem to lead properly. I'm a weak lead."

The Italian groaned, rolling his eyes emphatically and curling his fists. "Now what the fuck is that supposed to mean, dammit?"

"Well, you know how the lead is supposed to direct the follow, right?" He seemed to notice Lovino's deadpan stare, because he smiled slightly and went on, "The guy is supposed to lead the girl into her dance steps. His primary job is to guide his partner into her moves. Right?" he finished, looking at Lovino to check if the Italian had understood.

"…Yeah," Lovino replied, his lips curling in irritation. "What about it?"

"I can't seem to do that properly. Emma and Anna also agree. I'm not guiding them into their steps, for some reason. And I'm trying, I really am, but I'm either too weak, or too forceful. And they get hurt. Do you know how many times I've stepped on them, or pulled them too hard, or let go too soon?" he shook his head in disappointment. "It's not right. I don't know why it's happening."

"Oh," Lovino muttered, his eyes falling to a bunch of garbage bins against a building wall. "Salsa is fucking difficult, dammit. Jive even more so. It's so annoying."

"It's not." There was a quality to Antonio's voice, a kind of lifeless _calm _that Lovino hadn't ever heard in a person before. When he glanced to Antonio now, he couldn't help but be drawn to the Spaniard's eyes. They looked clear, unemotional, like slabs of glass.

"Not for you," the Italian spat, jealousy making his toes curl.

Antonio sighed. His gaze dropped to his shoes for the briefest of seconds, and Lovino actually wondered if he'd hurt the man's feelings. Boo fucking hoo if he did. But then, Antonio looked up again, and he was grinning. It was a small, inviting smile, but it was there all the same. "Maybe we can help each other out?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

And then, Antonio offered him a hand. Lovino stared at it, his mouth hanging open. What the hell was this bastard trying to do? Antonio's palm was outstretched in front of him, his eyes soft and hopeful. Lovino gaped at it, and then at Antonio.

"What are you doing, bastard?" the Italian snarled.

"Shall we dance?"

"_What_?!" Lovino shouted, a bright red colouring his cheeks as he glanced about, hoping against hope there weren't any witnesses. Thank god. The streets were empty.

"Well, my lead is terrible, and your footwork is out of sync with your partner's. Maybe we can dance together, and give each other feedback. What do you say, Lovino?"

"How the fuck do you know—"

"I've watched you dance, remember? You know the steps, you just miss the beat, you said so yourself. But more than that, you seem…uncoordinated. Every time you dance with Emma or Anna, you always try to go faster or slower than them. Almost like you're _trying _to make them stumble. Or like you don't want them to be on the same rhythm as you. Does that make sense?" Antonio paused for air, and Lovino just spluttered incoherently. The Spaniard continued, "So, maybe we can dance together and see what the other person is doing wrong. Maybe you can help me get my lead correctly. And maybe I'll figure out exactly what you're doing wrong, apart from my initial observations."

Lovino just stared at him. Antonio's hand was still outstretched, waiting. His eyes were still soft, still inviting. "But…but…you're a guy."

"So?"

"And ballroom dancing is usually done between a man and a woman."

Antonio's face burst into a shit-eating grin. "Is that what you think? Have you heard of the Blackpool Same-Sex Dance Festival?"

"W-what…?"

"The logic is the same, Lovino. You either lead or you follow. Sex really does not matter, you know, not even in ballroom dancing. Now, do you think we could help each other out? Please? This is really bothering me, and I can tell it's bothering you too. _Por favor, _Lovino?"

"I-I—"

"What do you have to lose?" Antonio cocked his head to one side, eyeing him curiously, almost like an inquisitive puppy.

"I—dammit, fine. But you better not step on me, asshole." And with that, Lovino cautiously slipped his hand into Antonio's waiting palm. He flinched slightly as the other man gently gripped it. With enormous reluctance, Lovino took his other hand and placed it on Antonio's shoulder, just like Emma and Anna would do. Antonio's other hand came to rest at the Italian's waist. Even through his clothes, Lovino could feel—or maybe he was imagining—Antonio's skin burning into him. Nobody had touched him there, not since Heracles.

"_Gracias, _Lovino, _muchas gracias._" Antonio smiled at him. Lovino feel his heartbeat in his ears as he kept his eyes fixed on Antonio's chest. He would not, could not, meet the Spaniard's gaze. It was too personal. All of this was too fucking personal.

"W-whatever, bastard," Lovino stammered, still not making eye-contact.

"Tsk, Lovino, look at me," Antonio gently chided. When Lovino didn't listen, the Spaniard let go of Lovino's waist and raised his hand to the Italian's chin, gently guiding it upwards so that their eyes met. "Eye-contact is vital with partnered dances, you know that, right?"

Lovino really, really, really wanted to hit the bastard. But he couldn't find the anger. The energy for fury simply vanished when he looked into Antonio's eyes. Instead, the Italian felt drained. Too personal, too personal, too personal…

"Great," Antonio chirped, putting his hand back on Lovino's waist. "We'll do Salsa, okay? Count with me. Five, six, seven and a _one—_" Antonio began to move. He forced himself forward, Lovino feeling slight pressure on his hips and palms where Antonio made contact. This was what the Spaniard had meant by 'leading' the partner. Lovino felt himself involuntarily go into the basic step, counting along as Antonio said, "Two, three, five, six, seven. One, two, three, five, six, seven."

_Shit. _Lovino struggled to maintain eye-contact. He couldn't. He couldn't. And Antonio's lead was too weak, it was true. But Lovino could still feel it, the slight force of the Spaniard's body guiding him into doing the steps. He couldn't do this, he couldn't—

Antonio stopped abruptly, making Lovino falter.

"What the fuck, bastard?" the Italian shouted as Antonio's hands fell to his sides, freeing Lovino from his grip.

"I know what your problem is," the Spaniard simply said, his hands diving into his pockets.

"Yeah? What?" Lovino snarled, as crass as always.

"You're too rigid. You need to let loose a little," Antonio explained. "Also, you need to trust me more."

"What the fuck?"

"Um, partnered dances are all about trusting the other person. Follows must trust the leads, and leads must trust the follows. If not, both dancers will be out of sync, resisting each other. And that's your problem. You don't trust me at all; you weren't even making eye-contact."

The Italian just gaped at him for a few seconds, trying to process this information. Then, after a couple of false starts, he managed, "Why the fuck should I trust you? I barely fucking know you!"

Antonio smirked slightly. "No, you misunderstand. I'm not asking you to trust me with your bank account or your house keys. I'm asking you to trust me, as your dance partner and your lead, to guide you into the steps. Does that make sense?"

"No, it does not. Believe it or not, not everything you say makes sense, you idiot bastard. And by the way, your lead _sucks._"

Unsurprisingly, Antonio didn't look very fazed at this statement. He just cracked a small smile, as one of his hands left his pockets to scratch the back of his head. He chuckled apologetically, his eyes crinkling in humour. "_Si, _I know. Do you have any feedback for me?"

Lovino stared at him for a long moment. Feedback? He wasn't—he didn't—what fucking experience did he have? He had no goddamn right to give feedback to a dancing prodigy like Antonio.

"Um, you look really uncomfortable. Are you alright?"

"Yeah, fine," the Italian snapped. But then, he added, "I think…"

"_Si_?"

"…I don't know, bastard. You seemed scared."

"…What?"

"Yeah. There's no other way to put it. You seemed nervous. That's why your lead sucked. I think. Sorry I can't dress it up like a fucking Nobel Prize Winning speech like you did, but that's my feedback to you."

Antonio said nothing for ten seconds. He was just staring at Lovino, an odd combination of confusion and understanding on his features. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Okay. That's interesting. _Gracias, _Lovino."

"Yeah. Whatever." Lovino looked at Antonio now. He was starting to feel awkward. Neither of them said anything, and for some reason, the situation seemed very uncomfortable. It was like both of them were waiting for the other to say something, and neither of them knew how to break the silence.

After about thirty-seconds of brainless eye-contact did Antonio finally say, "…You were going to the train station, right?"

Oh. Right. Yes.

"_S-si_," Lovino stammered, feeling his cheeks heat up. He looked away abruptly, marching forward, trying to forget the embarrassing situation. It didn't help that Antonio fell into step beside him.

And then a giant _plop _fell on Lovino's head, and the Italian groaned.

"Fuck, please don't tell me it's—"

Antonio was looking to the sky. His eyes were wide in a helpless, open expression. A single drop of water fell on his forehead. "_Si,_" the Spaniard muttered as Lovino felt another _plop _on his nose. Antonio continued, "_Lo siento, _Lovino, but I think it's raining."

* * *

By the time they made it into the train station, both of them were drenched. Lovino was shivering, the water having seeped into his clothes and his shoes, making uncomfortable squelching noises as he walked. Antonio ambled, almost uncaring about the fact that his hair was stuck to his forehead and was dripping water into his eyes. In fact, every time a drop of water trickled from his locks and onto his face, he'd close his eyes, almost like he was trying to capture and memorise the feel of the dampness against his skin.

He seemed calmer, somehow. He was shivering too, but Lovino noticed a comfortable slump in his shoulders that wasn't there before. Only then did it occur to Lovino that Antonio carried himself with a certain unnatural tautness. Despite his rhythmic, graceful walk, Antonio always seemed perpetually tense about something.

They went straight for a ticket machine. Antonio idly said, "I guess I'll have to take a train too. I usually walk, but the rain's pretty bad."

"I always fucking forget that you need to carry an umbrella here. You never know when it's going to rain. No fucking wonder Heracles hated this city. I mean, it's so drab and lifeless and—" Lovino abruptly shut his mouth, his eyes going wide at the realisation that he'd said Heracles's name out loud. Antonio was just looking at him.

"Are you alright?" the Spaniard's expression had softened.

"…Y-yeah," Lovino stammered, his gaze dropping from Antonio's as he punched the buttons of the ticket dispenser, trying to distract himself. He was painfully aware of how dead silent the train station was. Why weren't there any more people around here, dammit? He didn't want to be the sole focus of this Spaniard. Something about Antonio made Lovino feel exposed.

Why?

_Because Antonio is a kindred spirit. _

Lovino dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. He knew nothing about the Spaniard, and he had no right to make such snap judgments about him. Still, though. From the corner of his eyes, he glanced at the other man. Antonio was at another ticket machine, counting the notes in his wallet with a very pained frown. He took out some money, and stared at it for a few seconds. Almost like he was reluctant to part with it. Lovino swallowed, looking away. He took his ticket from the machine and waited as Antonio got his own.

"Where do you get off, bastard?" Lovino asked, approaching him cautiously.

Antonio's head snapped up, flinching at the sudden disturbance. He visibly relaxed when he saw Lovino, and said, "Oh, the next station. That's why I don't like taking a train, it's such a waste of money." But he let out a small smile. "Can't do anything about the rain, I guess."

"Mm. C'mon. Let's go."

There were a few more people in the train, but the air-conditioned space was making Lovino's teeth chatter. Antonio, too, was shivering. But oddly, Lovino noticed, he wasn't _trying _to warm himself up. He just sat with his hands to his sides, staring at the floor. The water on his skin had dried up, but his hair still trickled. Antonio didn't seem to care. If anything, he seemed to be enjoying it.

They sat in silence next to each other, Lovino shivering violently, contrasting with Antonio's steady posture. When the Spaniard's station arrived, he got up, gave Lovino a small smile, and said, "_Muchas gracias _for today, Lovino. And thank you for the wonderful company. See you next class, _si_?"

"…_Si_," the Italian replied quietly. Wonderful company? Did Antonio just call him 'wonderful company'? Was he stupid or something? Lovino was _anything but. _

"Good night," Antonio added as he stepped off the train.

It was after the doors closed behind Antonio that Lovino softly replied, "Good night, bastard."

* * *

"Lovi! You're back!" Feli squealed as he entered the house. There was a strong, delicious smell coming from the kitchen. Lovino could identify the scent or oregano and tomatoes. Slipping off his soggy shoes, the Italian sat on the couch and began to peel away his wet socks.

"Yeah, of course I'm fucking back. Where did you think I'd go?" Lovino muttered.

Feli laughed. "I got home twenty minutes ago, too. Ludwig's still at the mechanic's, getting the car fixed. He's saying we might by a new one. Isn't that cool?"

"Yeah. Great."

"Ve, why are you all wet?"

"Why do you think, _idiota_?! It's fucking pouring outside!" Lovino jumped to his feet, picking up his wet socks as he did. "Feli," he added, "What the hell are you cooking?"

Feliciano blinked at him. When he answered his tone was far more cautious. "Spaghetti. Would you like some?"

"…Yeah," Lovino replied, and suddenly realised it was true. Holy shit, he was _ravenous. _Maybe it was all that dancing. He'd barely eaten any breakfast or lunch, either. "Yeah, actually, I wouldn't mind some." The very idea of food made Lovino salivate. "I'm going to change and dry myself. And then I'm going to eat."

Feli was gaping at him. There was no other way to put it. Feliciano was just standing there with his eyes wide and his mouth open. "You—you're going to eat?" he repeated, his voice higher than usual, coated in blank disbelief.

"Fucking—didn't you hear me the first time?!" Lovino shouted as he stormed up to his room. "I'm fucking starving, dammit!"

* * *

Antonio blinked at the sight of the man before him. Arthur was wearing a tuxedo, standing at the door with flowers in his hand, impatiently tapping his foot, muttering curses under his breath. When the Spaniard climbed up the stairs and stopped in front of the apartment, Arthur turned, and both of them gaped silently at each other. Antonio was soaked, shivering with cold, and loving it. _(Cold was safe, cold was secure, cold kept the fire away.)_ Arthur opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, and after a few false starts, said, "H-hello, again. How do you do?"

It had been a while since he'd seen the Englishman around the apartment. But then, Francis _had _taken an off-day today, lying about a stomach ache. Both Gilbert and Antonio knew by now that when Francis said things like that, he usually had dates.

"Hola," Antonio began. Wasn't Francis dating Joan now? The Spaniard stepped forward, taking out the house keys from his pocket. When he opened the door, he stepped aside for Arthur to enter. Gilbert was nowhere to be seen, but Antonio could hear obvious activity coming from the Frenchman's room. Some sort of opera music was wafting across the apartment, and Antonio had to suppress a sigh. To Arthur, he said, "Why don't you sit down? I'm sure Francis will be out in no time."

Arthur nodded wordlessly, looking slightly uncomfortable. He pulled up a chair at the dining table and sat down, crossing his legs and placing his hands on his lap. The flowers sat on the table, waiting for Francis. "Rain's pretty bad, I presume?" he asked.

"_Si_." Antonio smiled good-naturedly and said, "Let me check on Francis. Has he been keeping you waiting for too long?"

"Just a few minutes, the bloody frog," Arthur muttered. Antonio couldn't understand that. Of whatever little interaction he'd seen between this man and his flatmate, they seemed to be constantly at each other's throats. But they still hung out. It was confusing.

Antonio knocked a couple of times, and when he heard no response, he simply opened Francis's room, shutting the door behind him as he did. Francis was admiring his reflection in the mirror, wearing what looked like a needlessly expensive black suit. He had a rose in his breast pocket, and was running his fingers through his hair. To top it all off, the Frenchman was humming the words to the opera music playing from his mobile phone. When Antonio approached him, he glanced up.

"Ah, _mon ami_! Oh, you're all wet!" Francis laughed.

Antonio laughed with him, but stopped prematurely. "Arthur is outside."

"Oh? _Mon dieu, _he's early. I didn't even hear him ring the doorbell."

"I thought you were dating Joan, though…"

At this, Francis looked right at him and sighed in a very long-suffering kind of way. "As I was explaining to Gilbert before he stormed out in a huff…" Francis began, and without warning, Antonio was subjected to a twenty-minute-long saga of Francis's love-life. Antonio didn't understand most of it. Something about a one-night-stand, something about Paris, something about terrible English food…

"…But won't Arthur be mad if he finds out you slept with someone else?" Antonio asked finally, a little hesitant at even pursuing the subject. Again, Francis sighed.

"Gilbert asked me the same thing. It's like you both don't listen to me. Why should he be mad? I _told _you…" something about open relationships, something about sassy comments, something about terrible English food…

"_Ay, dios mío, _I'm confused," Antonio laughed. This time, genuinely. "Whatever, _mi amigo. _As long as _you _know what's going on in your relationships. Now, are you going to go check on Arthur? He's been alone outside for a while…"

Francis raised an eyebrow. "Oh, he's fine," Francis dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Are you going to change out of your wet clothes? You'll fall ill."

Antonio blinked, suddenly remembering that he was still in drenched clothes. Not that he minded, but Francis had a point. He didn't want to miss out on work, not when every shift mattered to his financial security. Nodding, he muttered something in agreement before stepping out. He gave Arthur an apologetic smile before going to his own room. When he changed and stepped out again, Francis and Arthur had left, and Antonio was home alone.

* * *

That night, Lovino curled up under the covers of his bed, and absently caught himself thinking about Antonio, and what the Spaniard had said about lack of trust.

* * *

That night, Antonio curled up under the covers of his bed, and absently caught himself thinking about Lovino, and what the Italian had said about fear.

* * *

Later in the week, Antonio got done from work a few minutes earlier than usual, and found himself waiting outside in freezing weather for Luciano to come and open _Shal We Danc? _Yao had been right about the weather prediction that other day. There had been a hail storm, and ever since then, temperatures had plunged. It wasn't _snowing, _but in Gilbert's words, "This was the coldest it could get without the white shit falling from the sky."

It had left Antonio in a bit of a conflict.

"Please, Toni, for the love of _Gott, _tell me you have a jacket or something." Gilbert had eyed Antonio suspiciously, because the Spaniard never wore anything apart from his usual long-sleeved shirts to hide the hideous scars. Besides, the two of them had become very close friends of his. They knew perfectly well that Antonio didn't have too many clothes, and he didn't plan on spending any money in buying some.

When Antonio had grinned, saying, "I don't need one, Gil," Francis had come up from behind him and slapped him on his crown.

"You'll get hypothermia in five minutes," the Frenchman had muttered. "Take one of mine."

"No, don't be silly. What will you do?"

"Franny has like a million outfits," Gilbert had snickered, and Francis rolled his eyes.

"Here," the Frenchman had said, handing Antonio a large tan coat. It was real leather, thick and long. When Antonio opened his mouth to protest, Francis gave him a pointed glare, and Antonio wordlessly took the jacket from him. The only catch was, the Spaniard didn't even own gloves, and neither Gilbert nor Francis had a spare pair.

"I'll buy a pair when I go out," Antonio lied. He had no plans of buying any more warm clothes. He needed the cold. This jacket was too warm, too heavy on his shoulders. He felt conscious of its weight on his scars, and they tingled in protest.

Now, Antonio just stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of the jacket, looking down the street for Luciano to show up. Dancing made him so nostalgic. His parents really would have loved this place. He still wasn't sure if he should have been doing this. He knew he was being silly, of course; just because he'd resumed dancing didn't mean he didn't miss his parents anymore. But still. Dancing brought Antonio back to his childhood, back to his home, back to the safety and laughter of his youth. It made him jealous of himself. He wanted those times back again.

He hated the new job. He loved the people he worked with, but the job itself…He was a _teacher. _He didn't _want _to wait tables. He wanted to interact with students, to explain things to them, to watch as their eyes would light up in understanding or even dim in boredom. Anything but this. This drab, rainy city and this drab, monotonous job.

Ugh. What good would complaining do? He should just—

"Antonio? You're early!"

The Spaniard turned suddenly at the sound of Luciano's voice. The Brazilian was smiling at him as he walked past Antonio, the glint of silver keys in his hand. Unlocking the door to his dance class, he said, "Aren't you cold?"

Antonio blinked, looking down at his single jacket borrowed from Francis, and comparing it with the three layers of sweaters and coats and gloves Luciano had worn. The Spaniard laughed, and smoothly lied, "I've got a high cold tolerance, you see."

"Ah. Lucky you."

As they stepped inside the class, Luciano switched on the lights. Antonio took a moment to admire the place. It really was quite spacious from the inside, and it had all the amenities they'd need. Water dispenser, benches, stereo…

"Hey, what's that?" Antonio suddenly asked, registering, for perhaps the first time, a large wooden box at one corner of the room. It was really surprising that he hadn't noticed it before. It looked vaguely like a treasure chest. But it had been stacked discreetly, almost like it had meant to be kept out of sight. That particular corner was dark, poorly lit.

Luciano threw a gaze at the box. "Oh, technical stuff. A spare stereo and extra light bulbs. That kind of thing." He took out his coat and Antonio copied him, hanging the garments on little hooks on the wall. The Brazilian went up to the stereo, connecting it to his mobile phone as he always did. Antonio watched him silently for a moment, and then decided to ask the one question that had been plaguing him for days.

"Hey, so I was talking to Lovino the other day," Antonio began, deciding not to mention how they'd actually danced together. He had a feeling that Lovino wouldn't appreciate anyone knowing about that.

"Hmm? And?" Luciano questioned, still fiddling with the knobs on the stereo.

"And he said something that confused me. He said that my lead was weak because I was scared. Nervous. Do you know what he meant? I just don't understand it."

Luciano's head snapped up, turning to Antonio with an odd kind of curiosity in his eyes. "Scared?"

"_Si._"

"That's…weird," the Brazilian muttered. "That's a really weird way to describe it." He stood, walking up to Antonio. His dancing shoes making clack-clack-clacking noises against the smooth wooden floors. "What are you scared of, Antonio?"

The Spaniard shrugged. "…Nothing? I don't know."

"Well, you must be scared of something. I mean," Luciano said, his voice trailing off as he struggled to find words. "Dance does not lie. Any insecurities you have, they come through in dance. So if you're scared, that's going to show somewhere in the way you move."

Antonio didn't reply. He simply did not know what to say. Instead, he sighed, sitting down on one of the benches and reaching for his bag. He'd started using a backpack for the sole reason of carrying his dancing shoes with him. It was foolish to don this sort of footwear outside. It would be ruined. As it was, his pair was in pretty bad shape. He kept forgetting to give it to a cobbler…

"So, what are you scared of?"

_So much. _

"Nothing," Antonio whined. "Which is why I'm so confused."

* * *

Lovino came to class five minutes late, and didn't make eye-contact with Antonio. The Spaniard, however, couldn't stop sneaking glances at him. What did Lovino mean? _What had he meant?_

Antonio was going to find out.

* * *

It was fucking impossible to ignore the bastard. Lovino didn't know why he wanted to avoid Antonio, but he just did. Everything about that Spaniard was too inviting. Right from his stupid endearing smile to the damaged ghost living behind his green eyes. Antonio was too _nice, _and everything about him made Lovino think, _liar. _Because that bastard was not being honest. He was just one act of deception after another, and that made the Italian sick. He hated liars. He would not tolerate knowing one.

And then there was the added fact that his false happiness and terrified friendliness and almost non-stop lying made Lovino pause and watch him. It was like a…like a magnetic effect. _Kindred spirit. _No. Lovino would not allow himself to think those words. Antonio was nobody. Nobody.

"—Four and a one, two, three, four and a one, two, three—" Anna counted off as she tapped her feet. Cha-Cha-Cha. Anna was looking mildly irritated at the fact that it had been half-an-hour, and Lovino still couldn't even grasp the basic step.

"One, two, three, four…" the Italian muttered, feeling equally—if not more—annoyed.

"_No. Four and a one. _That's how you move your feet, stupid. Not one, two, three, four! _Four and a one_, two, three, four. Get it?"

_Ugh. _

"It all looks the same to me!"

"Well, look harder!"

Luciano liked to alternate dances. They'd usually do two dances a day. Sometimes it was Salsa and Jive. Other times it was Waltz and Samba. Sometimes Bachata. The logic was, they'd know of all the dances. Plus, a little variety, Luciano said, was a good thing. Pros like Emma, Yong Soo and Antonio already knew these dances perfectly. Mathias and Anna were also pretty damn good. It was only Lovino who didn't know these dances, and that made him feel like an idiot all the time.

But on the plus side, dancing made Lovino hungry. He could actually see his appetite improving. On days when he had to go to class, he'd come back to Feli's place, ravenous. His body had hurt quite a bit, initially, but Luciano said that was normal. Because he wasn't used to so much physical movement. At which point, Mathias made some stupid sex joke, and Lovino gave them a demonstration in his knowledge of swear words.

Today, Anna was helping him learn the basic Cha-Cha-Cha step, while the others were already skipping around to the music. Lovino didn't think much of this dance. Not right now, anyway. Anna was standing beside him, arms crossed, a frown on her face. This always seemed to happen.

Luciano also had a style of teaching the steps. He would never immediately partner people up. First, he'd teach them the individual step, and when they were good at it, he'd make them dance with a partner. Which was why Lovino was standing there, awkward, duck-footed, pissed off.

The aforementioned dance teacher finally pulled himself away from Yong Soo and Emma and walked across the room to where Lovino was standing. He'd noticed the problem. "What's going on, guys?" he questioned, clapping Lovino's back lightly.

Anna threw her arms up in defeat. "I can't teach him. Can I go dance with Mathias now?" Both Antonio and Mathias were standing at one corner. They were _supposed _to be practicing on their own, but it just looked like they were laughing about (probably) inappropriate jokes.

Luciano smirked. "Yeah. Go dance with him. He looks far too happy over there. Go do something about it."

"I resent that," the brunette muttered sharply before marching off.

Turning to Lovino, Luciano said, "Oh man, you look like you're going to hit something." He laughed, and went on, "Now, come on, it's very simple. We'll do it together. Slowly. Just copy what I'm doing, okay?"

"…Yeah. Whatever."

"Great!"

Lovino's minor achievement for the night was learning to do the stupid Cha-Cha-Cha basic.

* * *

When Luciano turned off the stereo to signal the end of their class, Antonio smiled before letting go of Emma. He couldn't imagine it was easy for either of the girls. They hadn't been getting a moment's rest ever since two new males had come to class. They had to keep dancing with everyone. Emma looked more tired than usual when she grinned at Antonio, walking off to Yong Soo while the latter went straight for his bottle of water.

Antonio could see Lovino standing by himself, pausing for air before he went to one of the benches. Now was his chance. The Spaniard whipped out his iPhone, opened the music player and narrowed in on a song. _Santa Maria _by The Gotan Project. Tango music.

"Lovino!" he called, running up to him. The Italian's head jerked up in his direction, and his eyes widened slightly as Antonio approached.

* * *

"W-what do you want, bastard?" Lovino spat. Antonio had his phone in his hand. Did he want to exchange numbers or some shit like that? No way in hell Lovino was going to—

"I was thinking about what you said the other day. About fear."

"What?" Fear? Was he talking about his lead again? For fuck's sake, why couldn't he just ask Luciano!? The Brazilian was some sort of dance god, right?

"_Si, _remember what you said? I thought it was pretty confusing, so I was wondering if you could dance with me again? Right now? Maybe you could help me out?" he smiled a little, and Lovino found himself going beetroot.

"The fuck is wrong with you? Ask Luciano! He's the damn teacher! Or the girls! Or—"

Antonio interrupted him with a chuckle. "I would, but Emma, Anna and Yong Soo have left. Lu is talking to Mathias." To prove his point, he gestured towards the door, where Mathias was having an involved discussion with Luciano, as the blonde wore his coat. Everyone else was gone.

"So wait for them to finish, and then talk to Luciano, dammit!"

"_Por favor_?" Antonio was giving him a pathetic, green-eyed gaze, the sort of thing that would look better on a kicked puppy than on a person. There was a gentle grin tugging at his lips as he offered a hand to Lovino. "Please?"

Lovino looked at the offered palm, and then back at Antonio. "First of all," he growled, "It's pronounced _per favore._"

"Not in Spanish!" Antonio chimed in happily, taking Lovino's retort as some sort of consent. He caught hold of Lovino's palm, tapping the screen of his mobile phone with the other, before carefully placing the device on the floor.

Lovino felt his ears go red. The music was dramatic and flirty, and he couldn't recognise it. He turned to look at Luciano and Mathias; the two men were looking right back at him and Antonio. Shit, this was going to be fucking mortifying. But then, saying no to Antonio seemed impossible. _(Kindred spirit)_—no. NO.

"Dammit, fine. Asshole," he added, just for good measure, whipping his head back to look at Antonio. The moron had a large grin on his face.

"_Esto es magnífico, Lovino. Muchas gracias_!" he pulled Lovino towards him, and before the Italian could protest, one of Antonio's hands had found Lovino's waist, the other holding on to his palm firmly.

The music kept playing, and Antonio momentarily closed his eyes to concentrate on the beat. Lovino couldn't think. He couldn't even fucking look at the bastard. He kept his gaze resolutely on Antonio's neck (which was also covered in the slightest scattering of burn marks). So frozen in panic was Lovino, that he gave a start and an indignant squawk as Antonio's eyes flashed open and he moved.

The Spaniard's whole weight pushed onto Lovino as he directed him into a series of steps the Italian was not familiar with. He didn't know this dance. He couldn't do this. Shit, this was bad. Not only was he dancing with some moron in front of Luciano and Mathias, but he was also going to make an complete ass of himself in the pro—

"Tsk, eye-contact," Antonio reminded. And perhaps it was the gentle, quiet way in which he said it, for Lovino found himself involuntarily looking up into Antonio's green irises. "Don't look so scared," Antonio added, "Just trust me, okay?"

"Why the fuck would I—_gahkh_!" Lovino cried as he was suddenly thrown forward into a spin, Antonio's firm grip and rough hands guiding him into each step. It didn't help that Antonio's hand was on his waist. Like before, he still wasn't used to it. Nobody but Heracles was allowed to touch him there. He was vaguely aware of someone saying something in the background, but the Italian could not focus on words. He could not even focus on sound at all, or smell, or movement. All he knew was that Antonio was touching him, and Antonio was dancing with him, and he was not comfortable with this.

But there was something else, too. A sort of _positivity _that he hadn't felt in a while. It was buried underneath all the fear and awkwardness that threatened to burst out of Lovino, and he almost didn't recognise it was there, until Antonio pulled him close abruptly. The two looked right into each other. And Lovino wanted to die right there. He was not okay with this. He was not okay with this. He was n—

"Lovino, stop resisting so much. I promise it'll be better if you just stop resisting."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" the Italian hissed.

"Feel the music."

"What?"

And again, Lovino was thrown into another twirl. A dip. Pulling him close. Letting him go. Antonio held him firmly, but not tightly, his touch confident—but somehow, lacking something—and when the music stopped, Lovino found himself pressed against Antonio's chest, gasping for air, his face flushed.

Antonio slowly let him go. The Spaniard was sweating. And they looked at each other, wordless. Finally, he managed to say, "Well? What do you think of that? It was a tango. I didn't tell you because I wanted to practice my lead properly, and I thought if you knew, you might try to copy me and that would just cause some sort of rhythm conflict or something…"

There was nothing to say. For several seconds, Lovino floundered stupidly for words, but none came. He couldn't articulate his thoughts. The first was: _I can't believe I fucking agreed to that. _The second was: _This is so fucking embarrassing. _The third was: _Antonio, your lead still sucks. _

But when he tried to say that last bit, he ended up shouting, "Now you're just trying too fucking hard. Your lead still sucks. It's unnatural."

"…What?" Antonio's face fell. "Unnatural? What do you mean?"

"_Per amo di Dio_!" Lovino cried out, frantic. And then he continued cussing in Italian as he turned swiftly on his heels, his hands flying about in the air. With as much dignity as he could muster, he tore his jacket and picked up his bag, not bothering to change out of his dancing shoes. He didn't dare look at Mathias—who was snickering to himself—or Luciano—who had an eyebrow raised in amusement—as he marched past them and out of the door.

* * *

A single moment of silence followed Lovino's dramatic escape.

Antonio picked up his phone and switched off the music, which had changed from the tango song to a Spanish pop number, before giving both Mathias (who was laughing too hard to say anything), and Luciano, who was starting to smile, a blank stare. And then, with energy he didn't know he had, Antonio cried, "_Ay, _this is so confusing! Lovino, wait!"

* * *

"Ve, Lovi, you were a few minutes late today."

Lovino threw his bag on the back seat of the car before jumping in the front with Feliciano. "_Fratello, _drive!"

Feli was looking at him with confusion, perhaps trying to understand why Lovino was looking so red-faced and frantic. "What's wrong?"

"Dammit, just dri—shit." Lovino sank into his seat in embarrassment as Antonio charged up to the car, shouting incoherently in Spanish. Feliciano, being Feliciano, chirped happily in greeting as he rolled the window down.

"Hi, Antonio! How are you? Is everything okay? Do you need a ride home?"

"Hola!" Antonio was panting as he bent over and held his knees. "Lo-Lovino," he gasped, and Feliciano looked at his brother, whose face was so red it could have had at least a quart of blood running through his skin.

"Dammit, bastard, what do you want!?"

"What did you mean when you said my lead was unnatural!?" Antonio whined.

Lovino sighed in a prolonged, long-suffering kind of way. Then, he looked right into Antonio's eyes, his stare deadpan. "I meant exactly what I said, bastard. Your lead is either so nervous and scared that I can barely feel it, or it's too strong and potentially harmful. It's not—it's not _normal. _You were forcing it in there."

Antonio was slightly slack-jawed. Feliciano was looking wildly between his brother and the Spaniard.

Lovino sighed again, a rare sense of pity coming over him. "…For the record, though, I had fun. Sort of. A little." And then he rolled up the window, and muttered, "Drive, now."

"Ve…okay…"

* * *

Antonio watched the car go with a twisted sense of confusion and amusement. He didn't even know why he felt amused. Nothing about this situation was funny. He was standing in freezing weather (not that he minded), panting for air, still in his worn-out dance shoes, with his bag and Francis's jacket still inside the class, staring at the retreating figure of the car.

"So, Antonio, what was that?" Luciano asked smoothly, coming up to him with his bag and coat.

Antonio took his things from the teacher, looked right at Luciano, and burst out laughing.

* * *

Feliciano had almost forgotten the _sound. _They drove in complete silence for about ten minutes, before he heard an odd noise from Lovino. Oh no, was his _fratello _crying? Why—"Oh," he gasped.

Lovino had his hands covering his mouth and nose, and was snorting in laughter.

* * *

Over the next couple of days, Feliciano began to notice changes. And it was fascinating. Even Ludwig had picked up on it, and the couple found themselves throwing glances of amazement at each other. Lovino's appetite had increased to almost normal levels, but that wasn't even the best part. Everything about him was returning. Or improving. Or some incredible combination of both.

He was louder now, as loud as he used to be. He was dropping swears all over the place, insulting potatoes and German cars and everything. Of course, this irked Ludwig, but even he didn't seem to mind much. More than once, Feliciano had caught Lovi looking at dance videos on Youtube. He'd just watch them, wide-eyed and wonder-struck. There were times he'd entered Lovino's room to find his brother dancing on his own, to music he'd found online. The resulting conflict would lead Lovino yelling at him, inevitably ending up with a door slamming and the words, "LEAVE ME ALONE, DAMMIT!"

One day, Ludwig and Feliciano came home to find Lovino curled up on the couch, pasta in one hand, wine in the other, his eyes glued to the TV screen. On the coffee table, Feliciano noticed a DVD cover to _Shall We Dance_. Oh, he'd ordered a movie.

"Lo—" Feliciano began, but was silenced sharply with:

"Shut up! This is the good part!"

When Lovino talked, he would say things like, "Apparently, the Blackpool Dance Festival is a big fucking deal. And have you seen the videos of those guys dancing? Ridiculous. It's like they're made out of water or something. How the fuck can they move like that?"

But Feliciano was more interested in how his _brother _moved. Lovino had developed an interesting way of walking. Well, the walk was normal, of course, but when Lovino turned around, he would do so on the palms of his feet, almost like he was spinning in a dance. Even his posture had improved!

And the absolute best of all was Lovino's laughter.

Lovino was _laughing _again. Not often, but his brother seldom laughed that much anyway. Still, the sounds of snickering and the occasional grin made Feliciano feel light. This was working. This dance idea was really working.

* * *

Meanwhile, Antonio was still giggling to himself when he got home. It had rained, and of course he hadn't carried an umbrella. Why would he, when he could relish the safety of freezing temperatures? His teeth were chattering, his lips slightly blue, but he couldn't help but give Gilbert and Francis a huge smile as he entered.

"Anto—do you want to die of hypothermia or something?" Gilbert exclaimed, taking one look at the Spaniard. The German's red eyes were wide and painted in disbelief, and Francis was just looking at him with his mouth hanging open, but even their reactions weren't enough to make him sober up.

"_L-lo s-sien-t-to, _I—" but then he burst into laughter. He couldn't even stop to answer their questions as he giggled his way across the floor and went to his bedroom to change.

Francis watched him go with a look of mild amusement. "I'd say our _ami _has finally lost it."

When Antonio emerged from his room again, forty-five minutes later, he was dry and wrapped in a shawl he'd borrowed from Francis. It _was _cold. Damn. But he didn't mind, really. Gilbert was watching TV, Francis was cooking something. They'd let him off work early today. When Antonio sat down next to the German, he switched the TV off.

"In consideration of your newfound insanity, the Awesome Me and the Slightly Less Awesome Francis have decided to let you be part of the Bad Touch Duo—well, Trio, now."

"Bad what?" Antonio asked, blinking at him and then turning to look at the Frenchman, who was leaning on the back of a kitchen chair and smirking intently.

"Eh, Francis named it. But basically, you're now part of our Trio of Awesomeness. Don't you feel lucky?"

"Uh…"

"_Ooh la, la_! He's speechless!"

"You and Gilbert are mental," Antonio muttered, grinning as he shook his head.

"_Ja, _but so are you, so that's okay."

Antonio laughed. "So, Bad Touch…Trio?"

"Yep." "_Oui_."

"And what do you guys do in this…uh, group?"

"We spread our awesomeness with everyone, of course."

"_Oui_, and our sexiness."

"…Oh, _si_! _Si_! _Eso suena fantástico_! That sounds great!"

Francis and Gilbert were noticing changes in Antonio, too. To begin with, he laughed more often, and it was always more open than it was before. Antonio used to laugh hesitantly, nervously, but it had become more confident. He still absolutely detested anything hot, and always waited for his food to become at least room temperature before he ate it, but at least he wasn't that afraid of entering the kitchen. He was still apprehensive, but every time he felt frozen with fear, Antonio would start counting dance steps to calm himself down, slowly Salsa-ing his way into the kitchen. It was really funny to watch, and Gilbert always took great pleasure in teasing him about it, but everyone knew it was just harmless fun.

When he returned from his dance class, he'd always come back laughing, or at least smiling. And he'd love talking about the people there, specifically Lovino. "—so funny, really! But I guess his awkwardness is cute, and he's a good dancer when he stops being so self-conscious, haha. I mean—"

"Stop, Antoine, just stop," Francis interjected one day. "Before you say another word, do you _like _Lovino?"

"Huh? I mean, he's a nice guy, underneath all the insults and stuff." Antonio looked at him blankly, scratching the back of his head.

"_Gott_," Gilbert cackled. "Do you want to throw him onto a bed and fuck his brains out?"

Antonio's cheeks darkened, and he looked at Gilbert with an awkward smile. "D-don't be ridiculous, Gilbert."

"Hmm," Francis said, "I'll take that as a yes."

Antonio squeaked something in rapid Spanish before blushing violently and changing the subject.

Another time, Gilbert called up his brother to ask him out for some beers. They hadn't really hung out in a while, and poor Luddy was not the sort to ask Gilbert out for drinks. He was too afraid of the drunken elder Beilschmidt's awesomeness. Ludwig, however, never declined an invitation, so the albino was mildly surprised to hear him say, _"Sorry, I can't. I'm dropping Lovino off to his dance class, and then I have a meeting with my—"_

"Huh? Lovino? Oh yeah, how's the guy doing?"

"_Much better, actually. He seems to be a lot happier." _

"That's good, because it's not awesome to be moping about and—hey, _bruder_, I just remembered I was going to ask you, is he interested in dating yet?"

"_Why?_" Ludwig said on the other end. With a slight smirk in his voice, he added, _"Are you offering?"_

"Haha, _ja, _because it would be fun to have Matthew hit me with a hockey stick. _Dumm kopf._"

"_Anyway, I said he seems happier, but not fully open yet. These things take time, Gilbert."_

"Eh, whatever." Poor Antonio, that unfortunate sucker. "So, no drinks tonight?"

"_No, sorry."_

"You're an _arschloch_, Luddy."

"_So are you."_

Gilbert laughed. "Love you too, brohas," he said, before cutting the call.

"So, who did you want to go out on a date with?"

Gilbert whipped around, to find Matthew standing against the bedroom door, his arms crossed lazily across his chest, the smallest of grins on his face. The Canadian laughed at his fiancé's expression of surprise and shock, listening in amusement as Gilbert tried to stutter out an explanation.

"Luckily for you," Matthew went on, "I've left my hockey stick at home day."

And that's when Gilbert snorted in laughter, bound up to the other man and pulled him into a hug. "_Mein Gott, _Birdie, you startled me. And yeah, I was asking Lovino out on a date."

Matthew pulled away, shaking his head in mock sympathy. "Poor Lovino."

"Shaddup."

Laughing, Matthew pecked Gilbert lightly on the nose before saying, "Hurry up, or we'll be late for that movie."

"Oh?" Gilbert said, locking the door and pushing Matthew against it. "Forget the movie," he declared before kissing the man on the lips.

* * *

"You'll be done in an hour, right, Lovi?"

"Of course, _idiota_, as always! I mean, how many times have you fucking dropped me to class?" Lovino grabbed his bag with his dancing shoes and opened the door as the car pulled up in front of _Shal We Danc? _

"Okay," Feliciano replied cheerfully. "Because Luddy and I are going car-shopping, so we'll take at least an hour. I'll call you if I'm late, okay? Carry your wallet, ve!"

"Feliciano, I am not a _child. _Of course I have my damn wallet. Don't say 'car-shopping' like you're going to by fucking groceries. And don't look at German cars, we've already established that they suck. Also, if you're going to take it on a test run, let the Potato Bastard do the driving. Or you'll scare the poor salesman with you. _Si _or _no_?"

"Ve, _si, si._" Feliciano laughed, and said, "Bye, _fratello_! Have fun!"

"Yeah, whatever."

When Feliciano drove off, Lovino turned and walked up to the dance class. He was a few minutes later than usual, so he paused and frowned when he noticed the dead silence of the place. There wasn't a single note of music in the air. What was going on? Huh, actually, the dance class's neon sign was off. Lovino had just assumed it had finally given up and surrendered to its dilapidated condition, but now it almost seemed like—

"What the fuck? Why is it locked?" Lovino shouted, trying and failing to open the door. He checked his watch. It was twenty-five minutes past seven in the evening, which meant he was ten minutes late. So where the fuck was everybody?

Lovino turned sharply, looking for the familiar face of Antonio Stupidface Carriedo, but he couldn't spot the green-eyed waiter. Oh yeah, didn't Antonio get done at seven? He must already be home by now, then. So there was nobody to tell him what was going on. Lovino took out his mobile phone and checked his messages. Nothing.

When he sighed and looked up again, he blinked in surprise as a familiar silhouette stepped out of _The Hungarian Café. _The bastard was rubbing his hands together before stuffing them in his pockets. He looked down the street, and began to walk swiftly in one direction, when—

"Wait! Asshole, wait!" Lovino called out. After that awkward as hell tango in class the other day, the two of them had become…acquaintances? No, that was not the right word. The two had become…uh…_uh…_well, they noticed each other's presence more. Antonio occasionally smiled at him. Lovino reserved his best insults for Antonio. They seldom actually talked, but it was impossible to ignore each other now.

Antonio stopped and looked around, his face actually brightening as Lovino dashed across the street, avoiding a couple of oncoming cars. He was panting lightly when he reached the opposite pavement. "Bastard," he greeted, and Antonio grinned.

"Hola, Lovino. I'm surprised to see you here. Class is cancelled today, didn't you know?"

"Apparently, he forgot to text me," Lovino replied coldly.

"Oh. Well, Lu's girlfriend has a sprained ankle or something, so he's staying home to take care of her." Again, Antonio rubbed his hands together, a small shiver running down his body. That was really when Lovino _looked _at him. He idiot was wearing _one _coat. In this icy weather. He didn't even have any gloves on. Compared to that, Lovino had a thick jacket, a sweater and a woollen scarf. His hands were toasty in gloves, and even his socks were designed to battle the weather. Did Antonio have a death wish?

"Aren't you cold, bastard?" Lovino spat.

Antonio looked momentarily startled at the question. He looked at himself up and down, at his hands, at his jacket, before grinning slightly. Lovino noticed how hesitant and small he suddenly appeared to be. "Oh, not really," Antonio said. And Lovino immediately thought, _liar. _

"You're going to fucking die of a cold or something."

Antonio did not reply for a few seconds. Instead, he changed the subject. "I had such a stupid day at work today." Rolling his eyes, he went on, "Yao's siblings came over, and so he didn't come in today. So I had to do all of his work, and that's why I couldn't leave at seven, like I usually do."

"Like I give a shit," Lovino muttered.

"So, Lovino, what are you going to do? Is Feliciano coming back to pick you up?"

"No, he and the Potato Bastard have gone _car-shopping._"

"Uh…"

"It's like grocery shopping, but for cars."

Antonio snorted. Lovino rolled his eyes, but there was a small smile tugging at his lips.

"So, what are you going to do?"

"I have an hour to kill," the Italian replied darkly. "And there's nothing to do in this stupid-ass city. _Dio, _when I compare it to Rome…"

"In all fairness, there are few cities that could survive that comparison."

"Whatever."

"Have you eaten?" Antonio said suddenly. Lovino's eyes darted up to meet his for a short second, and then he looked away. "Because," Antonio went on, "I'm hungry. Haha."

"…Yeah, I could eat," Lovino muttered. "_The Hungarian Café, _then?" He looked at the place, only ten steps away, but paused in thought as Antonio's shoulder slumped. The Spaniard let out a nervous chuckle.

"Um…" he said.

"What, dammit?"

"Haha, um, I could never afford that place." Antonio was looking at him with a hesitant smile, but Lovino swallowed in guilt. Of course. What an idiot he'd been. Antonio was too fucking poor to be able to eat at the restaurant where he worked. Great.

"Dammit, fine," Lovino muttered. "Where, then?"

"Uh, there's this cool place not too far from here. It's like a plaza or something. I go there for lunch, usually. But it's even better in the evening, I've heard! There are lots of cute little shops, and people busking, and lots and lots of street food! Chinese, Spanish, Italian—"

"Italian," Lovino said suddenly, "That's all I care about. Let's go."

"Oh. Okay!" Antonio turned gracefully on the palms of his feet. "This way, come on." Stuffing his hands into his coat pockets, he hummed to himself softly as they walked. And Lovino was surprised; a silence hung between them. The Italian watched him, then threw his gaze around the street. A couple of cars here and there. A few businessmen entering a bar. People in bookstores, browsing through shelves. How long had it been since Lovino had read something?

And then there was Antonio. Lovino went back to look at him. His eyes were downcast, a small, lost smile on his lips. He would shiver occasionally, but would bring his hands out of the pockets to rub them a little. Lovino narrowed his eyes. That coat, though. It looked expensive. It looked like something purchased from a fancy store, boasting of a designer label. Black, high-collared, golden buttons. This somehow didn't go with the image of a man who wore almost-torn dance shoes and was hesitant to buy a cheap train ticket. And the coat looked new, too. This could not have belonged to him.

In fact, the style sort of reminded him of Gilbert's flatmate. That pervy creep. Francis. Oh, yeah. Come to think of it, that was probably Francis's actual coat. Did the bastard not even own a jacket? What the _hell _had happened to him?

When Antonio shivered again for what seemed like the millionth time, Lovino snapped, "Oh _Dio_, you're going to die!" He ignored Antonio's confused questioning as he ripped the scarf off his neck and threw it in Antonio's face. "Here. Fucking wear it."

Antonio peeled the scarf off him with studied slowness. He looked at it, then at Lovino, and then slowly shook his head. "No need, Lovino. I'm fine."

"No, you're not. It's freezing, and you're going to fall sick. And I'm not having you sneezing all over the fucking dinner plate, so wear the fucking scarf and shut up."

The Spaniard took this all in, and swallowed. He looked slightly nervous. "O-okay…" Lovino watched as Antonio slowly wrapped the scarf around him. But the moron did such a bad job that it left his neck exposed, hence defeating the point. When he caught Lovino glaring, he simply chuckled, albeit nervously. "I don't like warm things," he said.

What?

"Why the fuck not?"

"Uh…" Antonio swallowed again. "Um…"

The Italian sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and frowning. "Is it…is it to do with your scars?"

And Antonio went beetroot. "Yeah…I guess they're pretty easy to spot, huh?"

"Mm, sort of. Fire?"

"Gas explosion, actually. In the flat below mine. I almost died." Antonio scratched the back of his head and let out a loud laugh, something that was so fake that Lovino almost winced at the sound. The Spaniard continued, "But I won't bore you with sob stories." He swallowed a third time. "So, um, how many hours a day do you practice dancing, usually?"

"Two." Lovino was not surprised. Antonio seemed like the type. The sort that would try to laugh through the pain and pretend like almost dying in a gas explosion was all in a day's work. The bastard was so good at deception that he probably forgot who he was trying to fool, too. It would probably have started as a coping technique, and that, coupled with the need to appear calm in everyone else's eyes would result in this: a nervous, terrified wreck, too afraid to wear a scarf.

Antonio's expression of embarrassment and panic was now moulding into something different. Insecurity. His green eyes were uncertain and fearful, and from the beams of streetlights falling on his face, Lovino could see Antonio frown slightly. The Spaniard said, "You have a very, very intense stare."

"What?"

"_Si._ I mean no offence," he added quickly, "But it's like you're trying to read my mind, haha."

The Italian rolled his eyes, muttering insults under his breath. "There's not much to read," he retorted, and Antonio giggled softly.

"So, you're a journalist, _si_? Which newspaper? Francis subscribes to most of them, so I may have read your articles somewhere…"

"I doubt it. I've been out of a job for months." Watching Antonio's expression fall, Lovino added, "And anyway, I don't live here. My idiot brother and his stupid husband do. I lived with my asshole ex-boyfriend in the country, where there was fucking _sunshine _and it didn't rain all the time." They kept walking as Lovino talked. Funny. Why was he blabbing on like this to someone else? Someone he barely even knew? "But now I've got nowhere to go, no job, nothing. There. That's my damn sob story."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that." Antonio sighed and suddenly stopped as a gust of wind came from nowhere. Lovino found his teeth chattering, but Antonio's eyes were closed, his face pointed skywards. He inhaled deeply as the breeze passed, coughing softly as the cold got to his throat. When he got a hold of himself, he opened his eyes and gazed to the red, water-heavy clouds. "My _madre _used to talk about emotional Renaissance."

"What?"

Antonio laughed slightly. "My reaction was the same. The Renaissance was the art and culture movement, right? I studied it in school. Of course, all of us did. Art, culture, science, spirit of inquiry, humanism, all of that."

"Get to the fucking point, dammit."

"My mother said that the Renaissance came after the Dark Ages. Things were pretty bad back then, and then the Renaissance came and swept us all into a new dawn. She said that our lives are the same. We go through emotional ups and downs. But they pass, and something wonderful comes along." His eyes slid towards Lovino. "Don't worry. You don't need someone who hurts you. You shouldn't cry over them. Good things will happen, Lovino, I can feel it."

"_Mio Dio_," Lovino blinked. "Do you always get this philosophical when you're hungry?"

Antonio laughed again, tugging lightly on Lovino's arm. "Come on. The plaza's not too far from here."

* * *

"So, a waiter, huh? Is that fun? Doesn't sound like fun. Not when you have to deal with assholes like me."

"Eh…I'd be lying if I said I liked it. But it pays the bills. You know, I used to be a Spanish teacher! Now _that _was fun."

"You were a _teacher_? And now you're a waiter. That's…"

"A step down. _Si_, I know."

"Nothing wrong with being a waiter, idiot."

"Nothing wrong with anything, if you enjoy it."

"Dammit, jerk bastard, you're snarky when you're hungry."

"Who isn't, though?"

"Fair enough. Where the fuck is this plaza of yours?"

"Haha, two more minutes. Here, this way!"

* * *

The plaza was not large, and Lovino hadn't expected it to be. It wasn't like those gorgeous open spaces in Rome or Florence. This was just a mildly spacious square flocked with buildings on all sides. It _did _however have a certain Italian flair to it. A few stalls selling street food, some plastic tables and chairs, but there were artists standing around, painting on fresh canvases, and buskers drawing crowds, yellow lights dotting the periphery…Lovino was instantly nostalgic for a home he'd left years ago, to a city he rarely got to visit anymore.

They'd gone to Rome together, Heracles and he. His Greek boyfriend had loved it, although he had teasingly said that Athens was way better. Heracles got pretty irritated with the tourists and the crowds—though being Heracles, he didn't show his annoyance as much as Lovino did—but after dinner, they'd go on these long walks down Rome's beautiful streets. Sometimes they'd talk and talk and talk. Sometimes they'd say nothing at all. But it was perfect.

Why did Heracles go and ruin that?

(Lovino felt a familiar sting in his eyes. But he couldn't cry. Not here, not in front of Antonio.)

"Lovino, look! A churro stall!" Antonio clapped his hands together excitedly, but when he glanced to the Italian, his smile faltered. "Are you alright?"

"Of course I am, idiot! Why wouldn't I be? Stupid. Now, what the fuck is a churro?"

Antonio blinked at him. "Churros? Churros, Lovino? They're the world's greatest desserts! Come and see!"

"Is it Spanish?" Lovino questioned warily, already knowing the answer to that question.

"Haha, yup! And they're delicious! Come on!"

* * *

"You realise we're eating dessert before dinner, right?"

"Haha, of course. Doesn't it taste better that way?"

"…You're an idiot."

* * *

They found a plastic table that probably hadn't been cleaned in three years. Lovino's chair was unsteady, and Antonio's was short, making the Spaniard sit lower than normal. A single plate of churros sat between them. They were small, fried, yellow pieces of cholesterol, to be dipped in chocolate sauce. Wow. Lovino stabbed a churro with a fork, expecting it to be hard, like a wafer, but finding, to his surprise, that it was soft, moist. Like a cake.

"Quickly, eat it while it's hot!" Antonio said, excited, as Lovino hesitantly dipped the churro in the chocolate sauce. He took a bite.

And then he put the fork down, a half-eaten churro still on it. "Gelato is better," the Italian deadpanned. Antonio laughed. Lovino said, "Dammit, aren't you eating?"

"I'll wait until it gets cold."

"…You were serious about hating warmth, huh?"

Antonio's smile froze onto his face, fake and forceful once again.

* * *

After the churros, Lovino demanded pasta, and when Antonio pointed out an Italian stall, he wasted no time in getting some. The pasta in tomato sauce was nothing special, but tasted of that typical street-side charisma that made it seem bolder, more adventurous, than its restaurant-served counterpart. He stabbed the plastic fork into the penne, almost making a hole in the paper plate. Antonio had some tacos before him, and was waiting for them to cool down too. And in this weather! What an idiot.

The people in the plaza were all bundled up and walking closely, trying to retain as much body heat as they could. The painters and musicians and other assorted buskers were braving the weather, though. Lovino found himself watching a pair of guitarists. They'd been there for a while now, not too far from where he and Antonio were sitting. One was shorter than the other, his jaw well-defined. The other had dark, watchful eyes and stubble on his face. At first, they'd been singing through a microphone in heavily-accented English, drawing a crowd of squealing girls.

But now, Lovino could hear something else escape their lips. Something that sounded a lot like…

"Are those idiots singing in _Italian_?!" Over _here_? How was this even possible?! Lovino listened harder, noticing how even Antonio inclined his body slightly towards the buskers. _Naufragando dentro_… "That's Italian," Lovino concluded. "What song is this?"

"No, no it's not!" Antonio argued. "Listen! They're saying _lentamente_. That's the Spanish word for 'slowly'."

"Idiot," Lovino seethed. "That's Italian! _Lentamente_ is an Italian word! And it also means 'slowly'."

They listened some more.

Antonio cried out in victory. "_Secretamente_! That's Spanish!"

"He said _SEGretamente_!"

"No, no he did no—_caminando en tu piel,_" Antonio repeated as he kept listening, "…Spanish, Spanish!"

"Italian! _Improvvisa, mi baci_, that's what he said next. That's Italian, stupid!"

Antonio's head whipped away from the buskers and looked wide-eyed at Lovino. "Maybe it's a fusion song?"

"What?"

"Ah, you know, a mix of Spanish and Italian."

"What the fuck? Why would they mix a language as beautiful as Italian with your Spanish crap?"

"Because Spanish makes everything sound sexier!"

"Dream on, bastard."

Antonio jumped to his feet, saying, "Come on, let's take a closer look!"

"Why?" Lovino shouted. "We can hear them just fine from her—_ghackkh_!" Antonio had clamped onto his palm and dragged him to his feet, whining about 'such a pretty song' and 'I wonder what it's called'. He completely ignored Lovino's protests, even dismissing the pointed argument that someone might just take their table, and after a moment, Lovino realised it was just easier to give in.

Antonio walked swiftly, his cold skin making Lovino freeze even through his gloves. When he wanted to be, the Spaniard was forceful, pushing past the slowly forming crowd around the buskers. Lovino blinked at the sight.

The two men were taking turns singing. One in Italian, the other in Spanish. They strummed their guitars, nodding and smiling at everyone who dropped a few coins into the ceramic white bowl next to their feet.

From up close, the song seemed ten times lovelier. The music was inviting and affectionate, somehow maintaining a subtle mix of passion and adoration within it. The words made Lovino want to swallow a bout of tears. _Heracles. Heracles. Heracles. _

_Slowly, secretly,_

_Walking on your skin,_

_Take my hands strongly now,_

_I want to love you._

_Smoothly, deeply,_

_Breathing from your skin,_

_It rains softly this night,_

_And now love me._

The words were so…simple. So simple and so honest and so fucking heartbreakingly powerful. The emotion that suddenly, violently flooded Lovino made his head spin. Heracles, why did he have to ruin it? What went wrong? Why did the first and most significant relationship in Lovino's life have to crumble like that? _Why, dammit?_

There was an instrumental bit now, and Antonio's fingers curled into themselves as he stared silent, wide-eyed, fascinated at the song. One foot went _tap-tap-tap. _He inhaled several times as the song came to a close. The crowd erupted in cheers. Money poured into the ceramic bowl.

And that was when Antonio walked forward, a crisp note in his hands. He did not put it in the bowl. Instead, he went straight up to one of the singers—the one who'd sung the Spanish parts—and began speaking to him in a low tone. Lovino frowned in confusion, barely noticing how the crowd around the buskers was slowly dissipating. The musician and Antonio were nodding to each other, smiling, while the other singer—the one who'd done the Italian bits—listened in, his eyes showing that he didn't fully understand what was being said. When Lovino took a few steps closer, he heard them speaking in Spanish.

"_Muchas gracias, _you both are fantastic," Antonio said with a smile, dropping the money in the bowl. He didn't stop there. The financially conservative bastard then took out his wallet and dropped several coins and three more notes into the container. The buskers grinned at him.

"_Gracias! Muchas gracias, mi amigo!_" the Spanish one said.

"_Si, grazie mille_!" cried the Italian busker.

Okay, what the fuck had just happened? Lovino narrowed his eyes to Antonio. This was suspicious. This was very, very suspicious. Antonio just grinned at the musicians one last time before walking up to Lovino.

And to the Italian's enormous surprise, the buskers started playing again.

The same song.

"It's called _Lentamente,_" Antonio said with a soft smile as the music began. Lovino felt his heart stop for a second. Antonio was looking at him with too much tenderness, too much affection. No, no, this could not be—"Lovino, _por favor, _dance with me?"

Oh fuck.

Not _again. _

Lovino looked at the offered hand, the music, Antonio's eyes, his smile, the buzz of the quickly-forming crowd around them, the buskers, the streetlights, the ground. And then he asked himself a very pointed question.

"Why the fuck do I keep saying yes to you, dammit?" he snarled, throwing his palm onto Antonio's like he was trying to slap it. The Spaniard laughed. "And why do you keep asking me to dance?!"

"Because dancing with you is so much _fun_!" And suddenly, Antonio was holding him again. His grip was gentler than usual, but also tipped with a certain kind of softness that made Lovino panic. The music picked up, the buskers' words slipping in and out of Italian and Spanish. And Antonio was twirling with Lovino.

"What dance is this?" Lovino asked. Why did this feel so comforting? Why did it drive out every single bad thought about Heracles? Why was Antonio looking at him like that? And dammit, why was Lovino staring right into the idiot's eyes. _Eye-contact is so important when you're doing a partnered dance, _he told himself. But there was something else. Something bone-chillingly familiar. Lovino did not want to feel so warm in freezing weather. Lovino did not want to feel so safe in a stranger's arms.

But Lovino did.

And that scared him.

"I don't know," Antonio replied after a moment. He pulled Lovino close. "I'm just doing whatever comes to my mind. Whatever works with the song."

This was embarrassing.

(Lovino did not give two flying fucks about that.)

_Improvvisa, mi baci,__  
__tremando ti agiti un po..__  
__e in un attimo poi,__  
__siamo soli e adesso_

_lentamente, secretamente__  
__caminando en tu piel__  
__toma fuerte ahora mis manos__  
__quero amarte__  
__suavemente ,profundamente__  
__repirando de tu piel__  
__llueve suave esta noche__  
__ahora amame_

Italian and Spanish were in such perfect harmony. What an odd, interesting song. Antonio's hands were so cold, little puffs of frosted air appearing every time he exhaled through his mouth. Lovino, watched, captivated. And he moved with abandon.

Lovino did not resist this time. He swept with Antonio, listening to every little nudge, the slightest pressure, the smallest gestures to turn, to dip, to come close, to spread away. He did not—he _could not_—concentrate on the crowd that was watching them, cheering them, cooing at how cute they looked. Lovino was far, far too preoccupied with the dance.

And with a start, he realised that he was giving in. Giving all the way into the Spaniard's bright eyes, soft smile, cold skin. He was—_"Trust me, Lovino." _This was not happening. This could not be happening. But it was, it fucking was, and Lovino was powerless against it. Antonio laughed gently as Lovino stumbled, his grip tightening just a fraction, to steady him.

"Careful, Lovino. Don't worry, I've got you."

_Lentamente , secretamente__  
__caminando en tu piel__  
__llueve suave esta noche__  
__ahora amame…_

It was over with a spin, and when the song slid to a close, Lovino was pressed up against Antonio, with the other man grinning at him. Huh? Did the song really end so soon? It seemed like just a second ago that he'd accepted Antonio's palm, stepping into a dance that wasn't really a dance—just a patchwork plucked from the Spaniard's creative mind—moving and swirling against the plaza, the people, the jumbled, tangled mess of emotion…dancing _away._

Slowly, Antonio let go of Lovino, laughing softly as he did. "Your face is all red. You look like a tomato."

Lovino blinked stupidly as reality began to invade his consciousness again. He noticed—although from a mental distance—how people were throwing money into the ceramic bowl. They were snapping pictures, too, or commenting on how 'adorable' and 'sweet' the two dancing men were. The buskers, meanwhile, were grinning as they set down their guitars. They thanked their audience, of course they did, but their eyes sought out Antonio instead. And the Spaniard was looking right back at them.

"Thank you so much," Antonio called out, though his voice was barely audible over the general chatter of an excited crowd.

The buskers must have heard him anyway, because Lovino was vaguely aware of someone replying with: "It's no problem! Have a wonderful evening, _senor_!"

Lovino still stood shell-shocked and rigid.

Just _what _had transpired here?

_What _had just happened?

He was dully aware of someone pulling him away from the crowd, and suddenly, Antonio's green eyes filled his vision. "Hey, are you okay? You look a little out of it."

"Y-yeah, yeah," the Italian stammered in response. "Just…embarrassed," he lied pathetically.

Antonio laughed, mercifully not catching on to the lie. "That was really fun, wasn't it? You danced so, _so _well! I mean, I know you were the follow and not the lead, and if you're dancing with a girl, you need to be the lead, but still! Everything about that…it felt so natural, Lovino. So free. You're such a wonderful dancer!"

Lovino let Antonio's words wash over him, listening dumbly but not coming up with anything coherent to say. He didn't even protest when Antonio dragged them back to his table, which was surprisingly still free (even though the food had become cold, which in hindsight, was exactly what Antonio had wanted).

It was only after staring silently at his cold pasta, listening to Antonio jabber on and on about how well Lovino had danced, did the Italian finally manage to say something.

"Your lead…" Lovino began, and Antonio fell silent. "Your lead was good too…bastard," he finished, trying to save face.

"Oh," Antonio said after a short moment. "Oh, yay! That's great!"

"…Yeah…"

* * *

_Feli: FRATELLO WHERE ARE YOU? D:_

_Feli: I've called four times_

_Feli: And I called your teacher, Luciano! He says class was cancelled today. And that he forgot to tell you!_

_Feli: And I've been waiting here for twenty minutes. Where are you? D:_

_Feli: Are you okay? _

_Feli: Looooovviiii_

_Feli: Lovi I'm worried :(_

_Feli: Lovi please call me when you see this. _

_Feli: I'm still waiting at your dance class okay?_

**Lovino: Yeah. Was busy. Phone was on silent in my bag. **

_Feli: Oh thank dio! I was freaking out! Where are you?_

**Lovino: Out. Wait there. I'm on my way back.**

_Feli: Ooh okay! :D See you when I see you. I'm at the café by the way haha. You're right, the house wine is the best._

**Lovino: It's primitivo, isn't it?**

_Feli: I think so ve! _

**Lovino: Told you. **

* * *

"Oh, there you are, Lovi! I was so worried! Oh, you look so red! What's wrong? Do you have a fever? Lovi…?"

Lovino threw himself onto the chair opposite Feliciano, dimly aware that _The Hungarian Café _didn't have too many customers. It wasn't that late, really. Well, maybe in this city it was. Lovino reached out for Feliciano's glass of wine and drank it in one long gulp.

"…Are you okay?"

"Eh, sort of," the elder Vargas replied, choosing his words carefully. He signalled a waiter for some more wine. He needed wine. Now. He still could not wipe out that memory. The dance. The song. Antonio. Something had changed. Whatever had happened this evening, there was no reverting to the acquaintances that they'd once been.

Now they were…uh…friends?

Lovino finished the new glass of wine in another long gulp.

"So, what happened?" Feliciano asked, hesitant.

"…I went dancing," Lovino muttered.

"What? I thought—"

"Yeah. Class was cancelled. But I still went dancing."

"Oh…" Feliciano was blinking at him in confusion. "You know, Lovi, you can be really cryptic."

Lovino looked at his brother, and then thought back to Antonio. The Spaniard was clingy. He'd wanted to spend even more time at that damn plaza, but Lovino had yelled at him a bit. (Antonio had just laughed). Anyway, Antonio had gone home. He'd offered to walk Lovino back, but the Italian had refused; he needed to keep himself from panicking.

"Yeah. Cryptic. Let's go home."

"Okay…but hey, you're not upset or anything, are you?"

Lovino blinked. And then he thought about it. And then he replied, "Of course not, _idiota_."

* * *

The next day, at work, Antonio entered the kitchen without stressing out.

* * *

"Lovi?" Feliciano asked, frowning.

Lovino covered his mouth with his hands, sat back against the car seat after dance class, and snorted, "The Paso Doble is so much _fun_!"

* * *

Antonio always grinned at Lovino during class. Lovino would roll his eyes. They'd wave at each other before they left, Antonio vigorously, Lovino lazily.

* * *

One day, Lovino was the first person to enter class, and found Luciano coughing slightly as he opened the dusty box at the corner of the room. There was a bottle of metal shiner in one of his hands and a dirty cloth. He didn't notice when Lovino approached.

"What are you doing?"

The Brazilian whipped around, his eyes wide in shock. And then Lovino saw the _trophies_. Hidden in the box were trophies and certificates and plaques and all sorts of medals. The Italian's eyes widened when he saw one of the cups. "You're a _Blackpool winner_!?"

"Uh…yeah…" Luciano replied with a laugh. "My girlfriend and I won Blackpool a couple of years ago…hehe…She's a dancer too..."

"Why the fuck have you locked all of this away?" Did Luciano not _realise _what a mine of publicity this could be for his financially struggling dance class?

"Um…" Luciano sighed, picking up a dusty, faded medal and polishing it. "Dad. He hated this sort of flashy stuff. Modest guy."

"Yeah, but—"

"I keep these here cause my house is too small for this stuff. But I polish it every now and then."

"But—"

"And if you think winning Blackpool is cool, Lovino, you should hear my dad's story." When Lovino fell silent, the Brazilian began to speak. His father had been dirt poor in Brazil, learned dance through his grandmother, and started some sort of dance revolution or something in the poorest neighbourhoods of Rio. "That's what I mean when I say that my dad loved to dance. The man was obsessed."

Lovino blinked. And then, without thinking, he blurted, "I want to interview you."

"Eh? What?"

"I—look, I—fuck it. I'm a journalist. Or I used to be. And this could be a great story. And I would like to interview you. Sounds good?"

Luciano blinked at him. "Which newspaper?"

"None right now. Fired. But I could sell this story to a paper. They'll lap this up. What do you think?"

Luciano looked from Lovino to the chest of trophies. "…Fine…"

* * *

Lovino used Matthew's contacts. It hadn't been easy. But two weeks later, by the time the story ran, Lovino had got a job as a feature writer in a prominent magazine. His editor was a scary bitch called Natalya-something.

And the story changed everything.

* * *

When they came to class the following week, Gilbert and Matthew were there. The albino looked like he didn't want to be anywhere near here, but Matthew was smiling. "We _did _need to learn a dance for the wedding. It's in three months! And when I read that article, well, this place just seemed _perfect._"

There was a girl called Luka Bondevik, a permanently bored-looking girl who apparently had been dragged to the class by her younger sister, Emily. Mathias took an instant interest in Luka, but Anna seemed more interested in another newcomer who called himself Giovanni, who claimed to be from Seborga. Emily partnered with Wang Jia Long, from Hong Kong.

And after every week, there was a stream of new faces in class. And it was all thanks to Lovino Vargas and the article.

Emma convinced Luciano to fix a shelf. The trophies were polished and displayed.

And best of all, the neon sign above the class was repaired.

_Shal We Danc? _was now _Shall We Dance? _

And dance they did.

* * *

Exactly two months for Matthew and Gilbert's wedding. That was when it happened.

After class one day, Antonio scrambled up to Lovino. They were not _friends_, per se, but there was _something _there that neither of them could deny. Antonio, that lying, deceptive bastard, was like a balm. Every time Lovino caught himself thinking bitterly about Heracles, Antonio's stupid green eyes and stupid dancing and stupid face would dispel it. And Lovino would feel lighter. Freer. Unfettered.

"Lovino, hey, are you doing anything tonight?"

The Italian raised an eyebrow. "I'm going home." He checked his watch. "Feli's late."

"Uh, yeah…" Antonio laughed. "It's Saturday today, and…"

"Oh, so you know the days of the week? That's good."

"Very funny, Lovino. Anyway, I was wondering if you want to check out that open dance floor at _The Spanish Armada. _I don't want to go alone, because that would be boring."

"The fuck, Antonio? I thought those guys were Luciano's rivals or something!"

"Eh, they sort of are. But I'm curious. I don't think I'll like them, anyway. But if they have an open dance floor on Saturdays, I'd like to check it out. Want to come?" Antonio's emerald eyes blinked in excitement, and Lovino groaned. What the fuck was _wrong _with him? Why couldn't he just say _no _to that stupid bastard?!

"I'll text Feli," the Italian replied darkly. "I swear, Antonio, you're an asshole for dragging me into your stupid schemes."

Antonio laughed.

* * *

**Lovino: Where the fuck are you? Never mind. Go back home. I'm going out.**

_Feli: There's traffic D: Ve? Out? _

**Lovino: Yeah. I'll get home late. I think. **

_Feli: Where are you gooooing? _

**Lovino: None of your damn business. Bye. **

* * *

The night was as cold as ever. A sheet of frost was starting to form on the roads, and Antonio had stuffed his hands deep into his pockets. For all his pretence about hating hot weather, he looked genuinely miserable right now. Lovino could see the slight tremble of his lower lip as he tried not to shiver too obviously. He was wrapped in a scarf and had a sweater and a coat this time, _grazie a dio_! But when the idiot raised his hand to rub his eyes, Lovino almost smacked him. No gloves.

"It's like you're _trying _to get frostbite."

"Maybe I am," he said simply, staring straight ahead into the night. There was nothing Lovino could say in response. And perhaps it was the slight pause in the conversation, because Antonio continued, "Cold is always better than heat. Heat, fire…it destroyed my life."

Lovino stopped abruptly. A palm shot out and caught Antonio's elbow. "Hey," he snapped, his eyes darkening with annoyance. "Dammit, listen to me. Your life is _not _over, Antonio."

The Spaniard blinked, his face expressionless. It was the first time that it occurred to Lovino that maybe the bastard was having a bad evening. Maybe he'd been craving the company. Or maybe he just wanted to go out. But in that moment, there was something about Antonio that made Lovino stop and stare at him. Perhaps for the first time since knowing the moron, Antonio was showing a sliver of _honesty. _

"Well," Antonio replied, thoughtful, "Your life isn't over either."

"I…"

Antonio suddenly hissed as a spasm of cold ran through him. His brow furrowed, and his hands shot out to hug himself.

"You moron…" Lovino muttered, exasperated. "Fucking—what the hell, dammit, wait!" he stammered as Antonio began rubbing his unclothed palms desperately.

Lovino did not know what he was doing anymore. But his arms shot out again, caught Antonio's palms in his gloved ones, and held them there. Antonio looked up. Lovino did not dare make eye-contact. He knew he was blushing violently. This was just too intimate, too embarrassing.

The Italian enveloped Antonio's cold hands in his, stood there, and gently started rubbing circles around them. "Does—does this feel better, asshole?" Lovino mumbled. "Wear gloves next time. _Idiota_."

It was impossible to gauge how long they stood there, wordless. Lovino warming Antonio's hands in his, blushing violently as the Spaniard looked at him with a penetrating gaze. But the streets were silent, cold, shiny with crunchy with sleet. Something about the evening was broken, something about it was healing.

* * *

_The Spanish Armada _was a bad, bad idea. Stupid Antonio. This was all his fucking fault.

The place was loud, crowded, lit like a nightclub, had too many speakers, too many people, too much of _everything. _They had to pay an entry fee, and Antonio's eyes turned to saucers at the cost. Lovino complained loudly about it to the fee collector, but paid for the both of them nonetheless. He pretended not to notice Antonio's look of relief.

There was a huge dance floor right in the center of the room, with the speakers churning out loud music that Lovino recognised as Salsa. People were dressed to the nines. They were twirling around the place and…

And Lovino sensed it. What Luciano and Emma had been talking about.

He couldn't put his finger on it, but there was such a profound sense of _wrongness _emanating from these dances…Not like Lovino was an expert or anything, but even he could see it. The steps they were performing were just fine, really. But there was something so artificial, so fake about it. It felt like plastic.

Antonio noticed too. All Lovino had to do was glance at him to know how unhappy he felt. They were pressed up against a wall by the crowd, uncomfortably close to a speaker that gave out a steady _oomph. _It was pounding inside Lovino's skull. The _boom-boom-boom_ underneath the _tap-tap-tap _of the Salsa music. It was difficult to tell in the low light, but Antonio looked almost…_pale_?

He opened his mouth to say something, but his words were drowned out by the noise. He tried a couple of more times, and then finally reached out and tugged Lovino's sleeve. The Italian stared. Antonio looked like he was having a panic attack.

"Shit, what's wrong?" Lovino cried over the music as he edged closer to Antonio.

"Lovino..." his voice was wavering. "Can…we…_go_?"

Antonio was swaying where he stood.

"Fuck. Calm the hell down, bastard! Come on, let's leave this shit-hole!"

* * *

As soon as they made it outside, Antonio collapsed against a brick wall, sliding to the frozen pavement, hyperventilating. The sight made Lovino's blood stop for a second, because Antonio was _not _supposed to be like this. Ever. But he _was. _This was the real Antonio Carriedo. This panicking _mess._

He was shivering so violently. And though Lovino was sure that had nothing to do with the temperature, the Italian found himself shaking off his own jacket, silently bending to Antonio's level to wrap it around him.

Antonio was inconsolable. He kept muttering incoherently in Spanish, shoulders quaking, eyes wide and blank. It was all Lovino could do to not have a panic attack _himself. _He didn't know how much time passed before Antonio quietened, becoming very, very still.

"…Antonio…?"

"_Lo siento,_" he whispered. Lovino had to lean in to hear him speak. "This was supposed to be a fun night out…"

"Yeah, whatever. That place was shitty anyway." Lovino offered him a rare smile. Antonio looked at him, his lips quirking upwards as well.

"_Si. _And it was not real dancing, anyway."

"Real dancing, huh?"

"Yes."

"What was the word you'd used? Months ago? _Emoción_?"

"_Si…_Real dancing has emotion."

Lovino stared at him for a long moment. "…Then…then would you say this is real dancing?"

"Huh?"

And Lovino offered him a palm. Antonio looked at it, raising his head up slowly to watch as Lovino got to his feet. "Dammit, bastard! Shall we dance?! I don't have all evening."

"…Oh, Lovino!"

"Is that a _si _or a no?"

"…_Si, mi corazon._"

Lovino winced at the term of endearment. No, he was going to ignore it. Antonio needed this. He could feel the Spaniard's cold hands even through the gloves. And this time, Lovino placed his hand on Antonio's waist, guiding him to put his own palm on the Italian's shoulder. "This time," Lovino declared flatly, "I get to lead."

"…Of course."

Lovino took a deep breath, staring into Antonio's eyes. This was how it was done. Eye-contact. Confidence. Fearlessness. Dancing was like a march of crutches. One needed the other. A bold lead, a trusting follow. If Antonio could not be the lead, if Lovino could not be the follow, they could fill those shoes for each other. They had to.

They were…

They were dance partners, weren't they?

Lovino took a step forward. Antonio took a step back. Lovino moved to the side. Antonio moved to the side. They danced. Slow. Sans music. Sans audience. Sans anything, anyone. Just Antonio, who was still trembling with fear, and just Lovino, who still fought against himself to maintain eye-contact. A procession of shattered glass, trying to be fixed by this thing called dance.

They turned, the spun, they moved. They belonged.

Antonio tensed suddenly. Lovino stopped. "What happened?"

"I just…" he began, his sentence breaking off and tumbling to the pavement, resting underneath their shoes, freezing in the cold. "I just…" he tried again.

And Lovino blinked at him. "Antonio, you need to give in."

"What?" he asked, his voice starting to shake.

"You've tried to be strong for too long, you idiot." The Italian let go of the Spaniard, crossing his arms across his chest in a defensive position, lowering his eyes. "Antonio, have you _cried_?"

The Spaniard did not say a word.

"I sobbed. When Heracles left. I sobbed. For _so long. _For _months. _And you _need _to do the same thing. You need to let go, or you're going to carry the weight with you. Those scars on your skin—they're just that. Marks. They don't define you, stupid. And you…you need to stop pretending. Don't lie to yourself anymore. Or to me, for that matter. Stop it, you bastard. Just _stop it._"

* * *

Antonio stood in the cold, his head on Lovino's shoulder, sobbing like he never had before.

* * *

"...Thank you, Lovino."

"Bastard. You can call me Lovi."

* * *

Pale blue morning. Rain. A tangle of sheets. Lovino's eyes took in an unfamiliar room, and the naked body of Antonio Carriedo asleep beside him.

And the trance was broken.

* * *

"Lovi, wait!" Antonio cried desperately wearing only a pair of trousers as Lovino threw his clothes onto himself, not caring how he looked. All that mattered was that he'd _slept _with _another man. _A man who was decidedly _not _Heracles. A man who would _never _be Heracles.

And Lovino was terrified.

"Get the fuck away from me!" Lovino shouted, storming out of the bedroom and into the quiet living room. He stuffed his feet into his shoes as Antonio came tearing out from behind him.

"Lovi! No, listen to—"

Lovino looked at him, tears in his eyes. "Dammit, Antonio, _fucking dammit. _I can't do this. I CAN'T do this!"

* * *

The door slammed shut.

It echoed.

* * *

**A/N: Right. Sorry for the late update XD But you DON'T want to know how long this chapter was. Okay, I'll tell you. Over 22k words. It was going up to 30k, but I had to cut it down majorly. I omitted a full four scenes. Sigh.**

**I would like to thank Cyan-Silver for their awesome translation of the song **_**Lentamente **_**by Studio 3. **

**Notes: **

***Emily is Fem!Iceland. Luka is Fem!Norway. **

***Giovanni is a random name I came up with for Seborga. **

***Wang Jia Long is Hong Kong. **

***Primitivo is a kind of wine found in South Italy.**

***In the world of dance, Blackpool is a big deal. It's like _the thing _to win. **

**Um…that's it, I think. Huh, this Author's Note was longer in my head. XD Thank you for reading. Sorry for the delay. I had tests, and this chapter was also really long, of course. Please review! :) **


	3. Chapter 3

_Or perchance,__  
__When the last little star has left the sky,__  
__Shall we still be together__  
__With are arms around each other__  
__And shall you be my new romance?__  
__On the clear understanding__  
__That this kind of thing can happen,__  
__Shall we dance?__  
__Shall we dance?__  
__Shall we Dance?_

* * *

_Ding-dong._

_Ding-dong. _

_Ding-dong-ding-dong-DING-DING-DING—_

The door of the Beilschmidt-Vargas home flew open at the frantic bell-ringing, and there was Lovino. It was fifteen past seven in the morning, and Lovino was shaky, pale, sobbing and panicky, and when Ludwig answered the door, Lovino didn't notice how both Ludwig and Feli were sleepless, with the younger Vargas on the verge of tears, a phone in his hand.

"LOVI!" Feliciano shrieked, pushing past Ludwig and throwing himself onto a ram-rod straight Lovino. "I was so worried! You never came home last night! We were going to call the _police_! Where were you? Lovi?" he pulled away just a little, to watch tears slip silently down Lovino's face. "Lovino, Lovino, what's wrong?" Feliciano's voice fell, his tone serious.

"Leave me alone," the elder brother said quietly, pushing past the two of them.

Ludwig's hand clamped down on his wrist before Lovino could leave the room. "You had us worried sick. Where were you?"

Something inside Lovino snapped. His pain, his sadness, churned at the pit of his stomach, turning into something far more vicious. He whipped around, golden eyes narrowed. "Haven't you ever heard of a one-night-stand?" he snarled, and Ludwig's eyes widened, letting Lovino go. The Italian went on, "Or are you that much of a prude?"

This was not normal anger. He did not want to shout or scream or hit someone. This rage was far more controlled. Guttural and fierce, but quieter somehow, darker, more meaningful. To Feliciano, Lovino said, "If Antonio calls, or comes over, ignore him. _Do you understand me_?"

Feliciano paled. He'd never seen Lovino like this. "Y-yes…of course."

Lovino glared at his brother a bit more, and then glared at Ludwig too. Again, he said, "Leave. Me. Alone."

And with that, he locked himself in his room.

* * *

Gilbert pressed the phone closer to his ear in anticipation as he heard the monotonous ring. It took twenty seconds for Elizabeta to answer, and when she did, it was with the sound of metal pots clanging in the background. _"Oh, hey, what's up? You haven't called me in a while."_

"_Ja, _well, you've been busy!" he laughed lightly, taking long strides up and down the living room. He threw glances at Antonio, sitting teary-eyed on the couch with a tub of ice cream in front of him and Francis's comforting arm slung across his shoulder. "You're definitely coming for the wedding, right? Matthew's sort of freaking out about the guest-list right now. A couple of Alfred's buddies backed out, so we had to re-do some shit."

"_I swear, you must be the only guy who calls his ex-girlfriend for his wedding to another man." _Elizabeta laughed, and Gilbert smirked slightly at his ability to make small-talk. Matthew had made him develop that particular skill. _"Of course I'm coming. Roderich too. But that's not really why you called me."_

"Uh…no." Gilbert chuckled slightly, and said, "Toni asked me to call you," the German lied, glancing towards his friend. Antonio's eyes were scarily blank as he stared at the switched-off television screen, ice cream melting into the tub as Francis coaxed him to eat some. "He's not feeling great. So he can't come in today. I mean," Gilbert went on, "He can't talk. His voice is all fucked up and he's got a fever. Must be the weather."

"_Oh," _Elizabeta responded softly. _"Yeah, it's probably the weather. Roderich had a cold last week. And I think I can feel one coming on too," _she laughed slightly, and then sobered. _"Antonio should take lots of fluids and sleep. Tell him I said that, okay? I hope he feels better soon!"_

"_Ja, ja, _I'll do that. Thanks, Lizzie. See you at the wedding?"

"_Wait…you and Matthew aren't going to meet me before that? You assholes. I ought to hit you with one of my frying pans, Gilbert." _

The German rolled his eyes. "No thanks. You did that enough when we were dating."

Elizabeta laughed. _"I NEVER hit you with a frying pan when we were dating. But I did entertain the thought a couple of times. Anyway, we ought to meet up, all four of us. Dinner, perhaps?"_

"All right," Gilbert glanced at Antonio again. "Look, I have to finish off some work now. Talk to you about dinner later, 'kay?"

"_Sure, sure. Bye."_

"_Ja, _see you."

He cut the call, sighing. Well, that was done. His relationship with Elizabeta was an odd one. But he liked it better this way. They were never a good couple. Always better as friends. And she wasn't a crazy jealous bitch either, which was great. He really liked being buddies with her, and liked the fact that she and Matthew could hang out without wanting to murder each other. Pocketing his mobile phone, Gilbert walked over to where Antonio and Francis were sitting.

"Okay, once again, Antonio, _what happened_? In English this time, please," the blonde was saying.

Antonio blinked at Francis warily, blurted something in Spanish and caught himself with a sigh. "Sorry…Spanish is like a reflex…"

"No problem," Francis said, smiling encouragingly. "Now, what happened?"

"Yeah, man," Gilbert muttered, "All I heard was some screaming and shouting. At some ungodly hour of morning. Freaked me out."

"So…" Antonio began, wiping some water from his eyes. "I slept with Lovino."

"What."

"What."

"_Si…_It was so…trance-like," Antonio finished, his voice wavering at the last word. "Like…like magic."

Francis squealed something in rapid French, a huge grin on his face. Gilbert had to bite down a smirk. Somehow, he knew it wouldn't help the situation.

"And then in the morning…he sort of…freaked out and…ran," Antonio went on, ignoring Francis. When he finished, he groaned, placing the ice-cream tub in Francis's hands and burying his head in his palms. And then he went back to mumbling in Spanish, quiet sobs punctuating his words.

"Oh, Toni…" Francis said, passing the ice-cream to Gilbert and petting Antonio's shoulder.

Gilbert helped himself to the ice-cream. "But why did it have to be Lovino, man?" the German muttered. "He's about as volatile as a box of explosives. Especially after that Heracles asshole."

Antonio could not answer that question. Why Lovino? Why? Despite the Italian's rudeness and cussing and prickly exterior…_why? _There was something about him…an air of hopelessness that Antonio understood perfectly. Only with Lovino could he truly relax. They just _got _each other. They _needed _each other. And both of them knew it. Last night had been so open, so freeing. It was like tasting happiness for the first time.

It wasn't just the sex. It was everything that came before it, too. The talking. The walking. The dancing.

_The dancing. _

Antonio needed to dance. With Lovino. If he couldn't, there was nothing left for him anymore. He needed to be able to hold Lovino, to guide—or follow—him into the steps. To communicate with touch, eye-contact, music. It was the soul of their (relationship? Friendship?). It was Antonio's oxygen.

He couldn't breathe.

* * *

Lovino lay flat on his bed with his shoes on, the room dark, staring at the ceiling. He couldn't believe it. This couldn't have happened. (And yet, it did. And it felt so natural.) Antonio had seen him. Naked. Antonio had been inside him.

But it wasn't just that. It wasn't as simple as sex.

God, no.

What terrified Lovino more than anything, more than anything at all, was how easily he'd been seduced. _No, not seduced. _He hadn't been charmed or conned into this. Lovino had willingly surrendered himself to the whims of another person. Lovino had given up everything. His personal space, his defences, his security…to another person. Why? _Why_?

Antonio understood.

Feliciano, Ludwig, they cared for him. They sympathised. But they did not understand. They didn't know what it was like to be completely unmade, completely thrown, completely decimated. Antonio did. Antonio lived it. Every day. Antonio's broken pieces fit perfectly with Lovino's.

And _that _was the frightening part.

No way. Lovino had made a mistake. He could not be this vulnerable with another person again. They'd exploit him. They'd rip him apart from the inside. Lovino felt everything too powerfully, and he simply could not afford to feel even a smidgen of emotion for Antonio. Antonio would destroy him.

That was what love did.

It ruined everything.

* * *

"Antonio, get up." Francis marched into the Spaniard's room, where Antonio was lying face-down in a pillow, miserable beyond comprehensible language. In Francis's hand was a cup of hot chocolate. Four marshmallows floated on the surface of the drink. "Come on, Toni, don't be like this."

Warily, Antonio lifted his head. He saw steam coming out of the cup in Francis's hand. The man visibly paled. "No…no…no…" the chant became too rhythmic. Almost automatic. "No, no, no! Francis!" Antonio shot up, his eyes wide in absolute terror. "Get that out of here. Get it out. GET IT OUT RIGHT NOW! Oh god, oh god, everything hurts, _get rid of it, it's going to kill me._" Antonio was backed up against the wall, gasping in panic.

That was when Gilbert marched into the room, snatched the hot chocolate from a stunned Francis and dumped it outside Antonio's window. The sound of ceramic hitting the street below made the Frenchman jump into action, and he darted towards Antonio, who was sobbing and rambling in Spanish. He was curled up on the floor, shaking.

"It's gone," Francis soothed, his grip tightening on Antonio's shoulder. "You're safe. It's gone. I'm so, so, so sorry, Antonio. It didn't occur to me. I'm so sorry."

Gilbert pressed the bridge of his nose. This was bad. Both of them had known Antonio was slightly traumatised. Even before the Spaniard had moved in, Toni had told them (albeit vaguely) that he was still freaked out by the fire. But for it to get _this _bad?

He glanced at Francis. The Frenchman was excellent with people. Already, Antonio seemed calmer. He wasn't trembling anymore. Francis would handle this a lot better than Gilbert could. With a sigh, he walked out of the room, whipping out his phone as he did.

* * *

"_Hello? Feli?"_

"No, this is Ludwig. What do you want, Gilbert?"

"_Heeeey. Give the phone to Feliciano."_

Ludwig sighed. Feliciano often misplaced his mobile, leading to people calling up the house phone instead. Gilbert had always found it sort of silly. ("Who has a house phone these days, Luddy?"). What on earth did Gilbert want with Feliciano, though?

"Why?"

"_Because I plan to murder you in your sleep and I need his help. Honestly, Ludwig! It's about Lovino. Give Feli the damn phone." _

Oh. Well, that changed things. Ludwig had had almost no sleep the previous night because Feli had been weeping over Lovino, and why his _fratello _hadn't come home, and had he been killed by a psychotic axe-murderer and how it was all Feli's fault and he should have checked on Lovi sooner and…and…_ugh. _Too much melodrama for one night, that was certain.

"Yes, hold on. I'm giving him the phone."

He motioned for Feliciano. When the Italian took the receiver, Gilbert said, _"Feliii…listen. I know this is a long shot, but you think Lovino would like to talk to Antonio right now?"_

"Uh…honestly, Gilbert? No. He's really upset."

"_Ja, that's what I thought. Antonio's pretty upset too. Mind telling Lovino that?"_

"Okay…"

"_Danke."_

"Gilbert. Gilbert, I'm worried. Lovi…he isn't exactly good at dealing with emotion."

"_Ja, ja, I know. As Birdie would say, give them time. I swear they're like a bunch of teenagers."_

Feliciano laughed slightly at the comment. "But Lovi'll be okay, right?"

"_Yes! And so will Toni. He's a really close friend, you know? I don't like seeing him this way." _There was distress in Gilbert's voice. Feliciano could tell. The German said, _"…Cool. Talk to you later."_

"Okay. Bye."

When Feliciano put the phone down, Lovino was standing right behind him. "Was that Antonio?" the elder Vargas barked.

"…Gilbert."

An odd expression came on Lovi's face. A combination of anger and hurt. "Oh."

"…Ve…why don't you call him? He's really upset." Well, it was worth a try, right?

"Fuck no! There's no way I'm talking to that bastard ever again!"

Gilbert was right. In an odd way, they really were like a pair of teenagers.

* * *

It was later, when Francis was almost about to leave for his shift, that he entered Antonio's room. The Spaniard had been sleeping all day, apparently too tired to do anything else. Antonio was awake now, staring blankly at the ceiling.

"You should call him," Francis said, and Antonio jerked in surprise. The Spaniard sat up, rubbing his eyes tiredly before looking at the Frenchman with a rather lost expression on his face.

"What?"

"Pick up the phone," Francis said, "And call your Italian. You won't achieve anything this way."

Antonio dropped back into the pillows and muttered, "Good night, Francis."

The Frenchman sighed. This kind of behaviour was hardly going to fix matters! And _everyone _knew that when Francis offered romantic advice, it always helped to listen. "Trust me, just call him." And with that, the Frenchman checked his watch and quickly left the apartment.

For half an hour, Antonio pretended to ignore what Francis had said. But it was impossible. He wanted to hear Lovi's voice. He wanted to dance with him again. He wanted Lovi. But…what if Lovi pushed him away? This was terrifying. What if…what if he was rejected?

"This sucks," he muttered to himself quietly. His tired hand reached out to the nightstand and found his phone. He found Lovi's number and called.

On the other end, the phone rang twice.

And then someone hung up on him.

* * *

Lovino entered his new place of work the next day. It hadn't been very long, but he liked the job. Right now, though, he was sleepless and dishevelled. Antonio had called and texted multiple times the previous evening. That bastard. Why couldn't he just leave Lovino alone?!

* * *

Antonio was very, very quiet at work the next day. Elizabeta still thought it was because of the 'cold'—what a convincing lie—but Antonio just felt _sad. _It wasn't a complicated sorrow. It was just a dejected, tired feeling that refused to go away. He cleaned tables and took orders with none of his usual cheerfulness. A few of the regulars noticed, but Antonio couldn't care less. He hated this job. He hated this city. He just wanted to go back in time.

To a time before the fire. Before the pain, the fear, before Lovino. The snarky, bad-mouthed Italian made Antonio feel things. Powerful, chaotic emotions. He needed Lovino. Just like a dancer needed a partner. If only he hadn't met him…

No, no. Antonio could never regret meeting Lovi. Lovino had made him happy. Lovino had made him feel safe. And those were two things Antonio hadn't felt in a long, long time.

* * *

The Spaniard wrung his hands nervously before entering the dance class. Matthew and Gilbert were standing with him. Those two weren't actually in for the dancing itself. They just needed one dance to learn for the wedding. It had been a few weeks now, and Luciano had come up with a simple waltz thing for them. It looked beautiful, even though Gilbert was clumsy and reluctant.

Would Lovi be here? Of course. He'd come to class, right? Lovino loved dancing. He'd never admit it, but Antonio could tell. In the short time he'd known the Italian, Lovi had gone from skinny and lifeless to fiery, emotive. Antonio knew the way Lovi's body worked. The way Lovi moved in step with the music. At first, he'd been so rigid, hesitant. And over time, he'd loosened up. He'd grown.

Dance never lied. And Antonio knew for a fact that dancing made Lovino happy.

So he'd be here.

He definitely, absolutely would.

* * *

Lovino was not.

The dance class was flooded with students. Ever since Lovi's hugely successful article, more and more people had joined. Antonio didn't even recognise some of them. Luciano, too, had initially been shocked at the response. Lu had to take two batches now. One group would come three days a week, the next group would come during the other four. Usually, it was the amateurs that had four classes, since they needed more attention.

Antonio scanned the room. No Lovi. Lots and lots of new people, but no Lovi. Gilbert placed a hand on his shoulder. "Sorry, man."

"He's probably running late," Antonio replied, trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

"…Yeah," Gilbert agreed, a dubious frown on his face. "You're probably right."

Lovino did not show up to class at all. Antonio found he couldn't focus on the dances. The girl he was partnered with was decent enough. She was pretty, she was nice, there was nothing wrong with her.

But this was not his partner. She did not know him like Lovino did. She did not move in sync with him. It was like oil and water.

Antonio needed Lovi.

Antonio _needed _Lovi.

* * *

Five days passed. Five. Lovino could feel them go by in excruciating clarity. Everything seemed sharpened. It felt like he had been dosing up on adrenaline. He was sensitive to everything. Sound, colour, taste, smell, touch. Especially touch.

Antonio had called twenty times in total. Lovino had ignored them all. He did not go to class. There was no way. What if Antonio was there? Lovino couldn't face him. Couldn't dance with him. Couldn't even _think _about him anymore. Antonio took over Lovino's mind, like some sort of slow, malicious bacteria. He needed to get the Spaniard _out _of his system.

Lovino was at the dinner table with Feliciano and Ludwig. His brother had tried to convince him to go back to class, but that conversation had ended with such a huge shouting match that Ludwig had to pull Feliciano away. Nobody, _nobody_, had ever seen Feli react like that before. Sure, the brothers had made up, but Feli's words still rang in Lovino's mind. _"YOU CAN'T KEEP PUSHING PEOPLE AWAY! ONE DAY, THEY MIGHT REALLY LEAVE!" _

He tried not to think about it. Those words hurt too much.

Lovino chewed his pasta slowly, trying to concentrate on the sharp taste of the tomatoes. From the living room, his mobile phone rang. Fucking dammit. Antonio again? Forget this. He wasn't going to answer it.

The phone rang and rang and rang. When the call finally ended, Lovino sighed. _Phew. _

And then Feli's phone started.

What the hell? It was one thing for Antonio to bug Lovino, but for him to start on his little brother? How dare the bastard? How dare he!? Feli motioned to get up, but Lovino beat him to it. "I'll kill that asshole," he snarled, marching to the living room where his brother's mobile rang from underneath a couch cushion. _Honestly, can't Feliciano keep his phone properly?_

He snatched the offending device, ready to blast Antonio to smithereens, but stopped.

He stared blankly at the caller ID.

He must have been standing there, staring at the screen, for at least a few seconds. From the dining area, he heard Feli's soft footsteps. "_Fratello_? What's going on? Who's calling me? Is it Antonio?"

Lovino swallowed. Everything suddenly felt cold. He looked up slowly, blinking at Feli with terrified golden eyes. At once, a million thoughts swirled around his head. He shouldn't. He couldn't. He wouldn't. There was no way. This was…the very thought was…ridiculous.

"Lovi, who's calling?" Feliciano asked, his voice a little bit more concerned.

With a deadly sort of silence, Lovino pressed the 'answer' button and lifted the phone to his ear.

"…Hello, Heracles."

* * *

"_Lovino? Hi…"_

"What do you want?"

"…_How are you?"_

"What. Do. You. Want?"

"…_I would like…to talk to you…face-to-face?"_

"Why?"

"_I…I messed up…After we broke up, I was devastated. I realised how wrong I was. How much I hurt you. And…I travelled to Greece for a while. Sort of like a sabbatical? And I just…I messed up so badly. Can I see you? I just need to talk to you."_

Blood rushed to Lovino's ears. This was a dream. This had to be. There was no way Heracles would be calling him. Apologising. Wishing to see him. Not after their break-up. Their nightmarish break-up. Lovino had thrown things at him. Heracles had actually lost his temper for once in his life. They'd both said such awful things to each other. _"Well, maybe I kept cheating on you because you're so unpleasant! Did you ever think that, Lovino?"_ The Italian's eyes filled. What the heck was going on.

He lowered the phone, covering the screen. Feli was still staring at him, a deep frown of concern on his face. "Lovi…what's he saying?"

"He wants to meet me." Lovino's voice cracked. "What do I do?"

Even Ludwig had entered the living room now. He took one look at the two Italians and discreetly walked off. Lovino reigned in a sob. Why was this happening? Why had Heracles called? Just when he was getting his life in order…

And Antonio.

He'd slept with another man.

A man who was not Heracles.

Guilt. It swooped in, taking Lovino by the throat and making tears spill desperately from his eyes. He felt guilty. For sleeping with someone. Even though he hadn't seen Heracles in months. Even though he'd been single. Even though he had feelings for Anto—

No. _NO. _Lovino loved Heracles. That was that.

Shit, this was a mess.

"Lovi, he hurt you so badly…" Feliciano said in barely a whisper.

"Yes, but…but…" Lovino ran a hand through his hair. He slowly brought the phone back to his ear. "There's this plaza. A friend told me about it. We could meet there. I'm busy this week but maybe on Saturday?"

What the fuck was he doing? Why? WHY? Oh god. Just agreeing to see Heracles sent shock waves of negative energy up Lovino's body. But…he _missed _Heracles. He'd _dreamed _about this phone call. He'd imagined it. All the scenarios. Heracles doing outlandish but desperate things to win Lovino back. Lovino pushing him away. Lovino getting over him. But this was actually happening. And Lovino wanted Heracles back.

WHY?

"_A plaza? That sounds nice. I always think of your Rome when I think of plazas. You're at Feli's, right? I'll pick you up from there, and we can go to this plaza for lunch. How does that sound?"_

"…Yeah. Okay. "

"_Good. Lovino…Lovi…thank you. I've changed, I really have. You'll see. I missed you. So much. I love you. I'll see you Saturday, then?"_

"…Yeah. Bye, Heracles."

Feliciano watched with a heavy feeling in his chest as Lovino dropped the phone onto the couch and listlessly ambled to his room. Ideally, Feliciano would have followed him, doting on Lovi like a mother hen. But he could tell his brother needed some time alone. To think. To breathe. To cry.

What the hell was Lovino doing? Really, what was he doing? Why did he agree to this?

"Lovino loves him," Ludwig said quietly as they lay in bed that night. "If it were you and me—if you asked to meet me after a bad break-up—I'd say yes in a heartbeat."

"I suppose…" Feliciano mumbled, "But your brother wouldn't like it, would he? Your brother would hate me if I hurt you."

"Feli…"

"It's true. You know it is. That's what brothers are for. We look after each other."

Ludwig turned on his side, sighing in tiredness as he pulled Feliciano close. "Don't worry so much. Lovino knows what he's doing. I think."

"No, he doesn't. Lovi's upset. Lonely. Scared. That's why he agreed to this." Feliciano sunk into Ludwig's arms. "Just you see. It won't last. Just you see."

"Okay, okay. I love you."

"Ve, _ti amo_, Luddy. Good night."

* * *

"Toni, aren't you going to dance class?" Gilbert asked as he and Matthew noticed Antonio stepping out of _The Hungarian Café. _They'd walked down, just in time for Antonio to finish his shift.

The Spaniard forced a smile. "Nah. I don't feel like it."

"…Okay…" Matthew said, frowning slightly. "Is everything alright?"

"Fine, fine," Antonio brushed off, a little too quickly for Gilbert's liking. "See you at home."

* * *

Antonio raided the fridge for cold food. It had been so, so, so long since he'd even had a lukewarm cup of coffee. All the progress he'd made. All of it. Gone.

Lovi, Lovi, Lovi.

LOVI.

He found some cold wurst. This would taste a lot better if heated…but there was no way. Antonio couldn't even handle the thought. Heat, fire, smoke, explosions, blood, pain, death, death, death. No, no, no. He would have it cold. Freezing cold. Ice cold.

Ice, ice, ice, snow.

Antonio straightened, his eyes finding the window in the living room. Over the last couple of days, there had been snow. Not a lot, but temperatures had fallen dramatically. Good, good, brilliant. He needed this.

That damn heater. How dare it. Why was it trying to set fire to the room? Why did Gilbert and Francis have it around? Who needed it? Antonio did not. He needed cold. He needed ice. He needed to get out of here.

He left the wrust on the countertop, snatched his keys from the table and darted out of the house. No coat, no gloves, nothing. Nothing but a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of jeans.

Antonio stood in freezing weather, unprotected from the snow that gently fell on him. It chilled him, burning into his body and cooling his blood. He took a deep breath. Funny how ice could feel so much like fire. But this was a good sort of flame. Cold. Dark and cold.

This.

This was safe.

* * *

When Gilbert and Matthew found him, an hour and fifteen minutes later, Gilbert almost thought he had hypothermia. But instead of being dangerously cold, Antonio had a fever. An extremely high fever. He passed out as soon as Gilbert forced him to his bed.

Antonio was sick for the better part of a week.

Sick and miserable.

* * *

Feliciano gripped the knife with more force than necessary. His hands were trembling just a little bit as he sliced the carrot on the chopping bored. He cut very fine circles, trying to make his anger disintegrate through focus and concentration. It was not working.

It was a sunny day, and the light coat of snow on the ground was bright, almost head-ache inducing. Man, it was chilly. Was eating outdoors a good idea? But he knew what plaza Lovi was talking about. There were some indoor restaurants around there.

He sliced the vegetable. Took another one. Sliced that too. Sliced a third. And a fourth. He didn't need so many carrots. Feliciano wasn't even sure what he was going to make for lunch. But this mindless housework was monotonous and distracting. It relieved some of his stress.

Quiet footsteps entered the kitchen, and Feliciano paused, placing the knife down on the chopping board. He turned to face his brother. Lovino was dressed in a shirt and trousers, with a coat and a scarf and gloves. He wore expensive cologne, his hair freshly washed and his gravity-defying curl bouncier than usual. His elder brother nervously tugged at the end of his sleeves. "…How do I look?" Lovi asked in a soft voice.

"Ve, so handsome!" Feliciano replied, forcing his voice to sound cheerful and encouraging. This was a bad idea. A _bad _idea.

"…_Grazie_, I guess," Lovi mumbled, his face turning bright red as he looked to the floor.

"Is Heracles picking you up, then?"

"He should be here in a few minutes."

"Oh. I see. That's cool, _fratello_."

Not cool, not cool, not cool at all.

In fact, Feliciano found himself getting more and more irritated at this situation. What the heck did Lovi think he was doing, agreeing to see that selfish, lying _bastard_? But he could still understand it. Lovino had been miserable and lonely for the longest time. And after that whole situation with Antonio…well, Lovino just _needed _someone. And no matter how much Feli and Ludwig tried to take care of him, it didn't matter. Lovino needed the sort of love that his brother and his brother-in-law could not provide.

So obviously, he'd jumped at the chance to meet his ex-fiancé again. Who wouldn't? But Feliciano was more annoyed with Heracles. He didn't even know he was capable of this kind of anger. When Lovino had showed up at the middle of the night at Feliciano and Luddy's doorstep, sobbing his soul out, Feli had done everything to comfort his brother. In fact, that's what he'd been doing for months. Always trying to make sure that Lovi was happy.

But he'd completely neglected the reason _why _Lovino was upset.

Lovino was upset because he'd been lied to and betrayed by the one person he loved the most.

Lovino was upset because the person he loved the most had deliberately and repeatedly hurt his feelings.

And when that thought finally occurred to Feliciano, he was mad. He was _furious. _How _dare _anybody try and hurt his brother? How _dare _anybody think they had the right? How _dare _Heracles cheat on Lovino over and over again, and just show up and expect it to be all okay?

Lovino had been bullied and teased all through their childhood. But he'd been protective of Feli, too. And right now, for perhaps the first time in his life, Feliciano was going to do the same for his brother.

The sound of an engine made the Vargas brother's jump. Lovi dashed to his brother's side, staring out of the kitchen window. A blue sedan. Heracles's car. Feliciano watched Lovi's shoulders go taut. In Italian, Lovino said, "_Fuck, he's here_."

"_It'll be fine._"

Lovino did not reply. He just watched, holding his breath, as a familiar figure opened the car door and stepped out. Heracles was wearing a thick black coat and scarf. He had dark red gloves. But his eyes were as green as ever, his dark hair a little wind-swept. Feliciano tensed. From what he could see, Heracles had a tell-tale tan on his skin, a sign that he really had been travelling around Greece for a while.

From the window, they watched as Heracles bent into his car again and took out a bunch of roses from the car-seat. Feli glanced at his brother. Lovino's face was cherry-tomato red. The Greek shut the car doors and walked up the path to their house, and the Vargas brothers watched from the window until he'd gone out of their line of sight.

Then, the doorbell rung.

"Oh god," Lovino groaned.

"It'll be fine," Feliciano repeated. "Go, go answer the door."

"Oh god," Lovino said once again, turning swiftly on his heels—just like he was twirling in a dance step—and walking out of the kitchen. Feliciano waited for a few minutes before showing himself. Ludwig had gone out, tactfully saying that he could not meet Heracles since he had some work to do. Work, on a Saturday? Feli knew better. Ludwig just didn't want to be caught up in the hassle. This was way, way, _way _out of his comfort zone.

Feli, however, insisted of staying. No matter what Lovi said, Feliciano knew his brother needed him.

From the living room, Feli could hear voices. Heracles's slow drawl, Lovino's sharp responses. Although Lovi's voice was unusually soft, and Feli could tell it was coated with a layer of fear. The younger Vargas took a deep breath. Right. Three minutes had passed. He would now meet Heracles.

His hands felt cold. Feliciano stepped out of the kitchen, pasting a bright smile on his face as he saw Heracles. It was difficult. Feliciano was filled with the urge to throttle the Greek. He and Lovi were sitting on the couch, with Lovi sitting all the way at the end of it, almost half-seated on the armrest. Heracles, for his part, didn't attempt to come too close. The roses rested quietly on the table in front of them.

"Hello, Heracles," Feliciano said with fake cheer. "It's been so long, ve! How are you?"

"Oh, Feli…" Heracles stood, extending a hand. Feliciano shook it. And it took all his willpower to not try and crush the Greek's palm. "I've been…yeah…" he finished, lowering his eyes slightly. "How about you? Ludwig?"

_We've been worried sick about my brother, and it's all your fault._ "We've been good! We just bought a new car, haha. Maybe you'll see it if Luddy comes back in time. Though he's in a meeting and he might be out all day."

"Congratulations about the car…"

That was it. Feliciano couldn't take it anymore. If he didn't say something now, he was going to burst.

"Ve, Lovi, could you check on the hot chocolate?"

Lovino gave him an odd look. There had been absolutely no hot chocolate in the kitchen. Nothing in the microwave, nothing on the stove. In fact, they'd run out of milk just yesterday. But Feliciano nodded at his brother, a frozen smile on his face. Lovino frowned.

"…Right…yeah…" Lovi muttered, "Hot chocolate…" He stood, throwing Feli a suspicious glance before he exited the living room and entered the kitchen.

Now.

Feliciano sat next to Heracles, and all pretence of cheer fell of his face. Heracles noticed, because the slight smile he'd been sporting disappeared.

"Listen to me," Feliciano said, his amber eyes flashing dangerously. "I don't know why you want to meet Lovi, but I don't trust you anymore. If you dare hurt my brother again, you will regret it. Do you understand that?"

Heracles opened and closed his mouth, a gesture that did nothing but irritate Feliciano further.

"Is that a yes or a no?" Feli barked. He didn't know where this aggression was coming from, but he didn't care. Nobody who hurt Lovi would get away with it.

"…Yes. Feliciano, I'm really sorry, I am."

"You think apologising to _me _is going to help in any way?" The younger Vargas swiftly stood, shooting a dirty look at the other man. "Don't forget what I said."

And with that, Feliciano had marched into the kitchen.

Lovi had heard everything. He was staring at Feli with wide, stricken eyes.

"…Lovi…don't be mad," Feli begged softly, heart thudding violently.

But Lovi had thrown himself at Feli, pulling his brother close in the tightest hug Lovino had ever given. "_Grazie mille_," he whispered. Lovino was shaking. When he pulled away, he discreetly wiped a tear before saying, "I should…yeah…lunch."

"Right. I hope you have a good time," Feliciano replied, wringing his hands together. He had a bad feeling about this.

"_Si, _thanks."

Lovino stepped out of the kitchen. Feli heard him and Heracles saying something to each other, and in only a few minutes, the front door closed. Feli watched from the window as his brother and Heracles walked towards the blue sedan, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

* * *

Antonio did not have a fever anymore, but he was still pretty weak. A blanket was draped over his shoulders as he sat on the couch with his legs folded under him. There was a glass of wine in his hands. He probably shouldn't have had any alcohol, seeing as he was still pretty sick, but he didn't want to be the only one in the room who wasn't drinking anything.

What a mess the living room was!

Clothes and shoes and assorted pieces of cloth were lying haphazardly all over the floor. He wasn't even sure what half of these things were supposed to be for. Suitcases were lying open and untidy, important documents were scattered across the table, wine and beer bottles right next to them. There was a quiche re-heating in the microwave, and Francis looked stressed, his hair messed up, a frown on his delicate, good-looking face.

"Now turn," he ordered, and Matthew quietly obeyed. The Canadian was dressed in a fancy suit, a glass of wine in his hands. He stumbled a little. Antonio wondered just how tipsy he was. Gilbert quickly snatched the glass away from Matthew. And Antonio couldn't help but grin a little.

Gilbert and Matthew were at that stage before the wedding where everything was in chaos and everyone was panicking. The tailor had made a mess of Matthew's suit, and Gilbert had begged Francis for help. Meanwhile, the couple also had a ton of packing to do, since they would be spending their honeymoon in the German countryside before taking up permanent residence in Berlin.

Which was really why Francis was so upset. As Antonio understood it, the Frenchman and Gilbert had been roommates and best friends since the first day of college. In fact, it was because of Francis and the loyalty Gilbert felt towards him that he hadn't moved into Matthew's apartment after their engagement. Sure, Berlin wasn't so far away. It was just a slightly longish train journey. That was the beauty of Europe. Everything was so interconnected. But still, Francis was miserable, and he tried to drown that in copious amounts of wine and wedding preparations.

Because as upset as he was about Gilbert leaving, he was excited as hell about the wedding. Right now, with a glass of wine in his hand, Francis was critically assessing the newly-bought suit Matthew was wearing. "It'll do, I suppose," Francis muttered. "Turn again, would you?"

Matthew giggled, his cheeks an unnatural shade of pink.

"I swear, this is what happens when you give him French wine," Gilbert muttered, rolling his eyes and reaching out to steady his fiancé as Matthew turned. Or, well, _twirled_, trying to imitate a step he'd learnt in dance class. Antonio bit back a small laugh, leaning against the couch cushions.

"French wine is the only wine worth drinking," Francis argued, running his eyes over Matthew's suit once again. "Hmm…try on the other suit, _s'il te plait_?"

"_Oui_!" Matthew replied, laughing as he picked up another set of clothes from the floor. These would definitely have to be ironed before the wedding. There was still a few weeks to go, but it was best to be prepared. Gilbert, in only a pair of jeans and an old t-shirt, was busy throwing things into the many suitcases lying all over the place.

The sight made Antonio's face fall. In the short time he'd known the German, they'd become close friends. Like Francis, Antonio didn't want Gilbert to leave either.

"Who's your caterer, again?" Francis asked Gilbert.

"…Uh…you are?" the German raised an eyebrow at the Frenchman.

Francis swiftly turned, gaping at the albino. "And _when _were you going to tell me that I'd be cooking for two-hundred people!?"

"I didn't tell you?" Gilbert laughed sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. "Well, oops. You know now."

"_Mon dieu._"

"It isn't two-hundred people!" Matthew argued, his voice a little louder than usual. "Just a few family and friends! So, like…one-fifty people."

"…Wait," Francis cried dramatically. "I can't be your best man _and_ your caterer, Gilbert! It's too much work!"

"Of course you can. Francis! Francis! Francis!" Gilbert cheered, and the Frenchman threw a shoe at him. Antonio could tell, however, that despite Francis's protests, he seemed rather pleased. He'd get his restaurant to chip in and prepare a nice menu. And he'd charge discount rates, too.

"Feli will come, right?" Antonio suddenly asked, his voice sounded hoarse.

"_Ja, _of course. He's my _bruder_'s husband!"

"…And Lovino?"

A small silence followed that question, and Gilbert replied, "He's coming too."

"Oh."

"You should go meet him." Matthew was still holding the new suit in his hands, he hadn't yet gone to change. But his slightly tipsy eyes were wide and serious as he looked at Antonio. "Because you miss him and he probably misses you and you guys are so cute together and—"

"Heeeey, good idea, Birdie," Gilbert replied with a laugh, placing his hands on Matthew's shoulders and guiding him to his bedroom. "Why don't you try on that suit now?"

"Don't try and silence me, Beilschmidt!"

Francis snorted in laughter.

Antonio finished his glass of wine in one large gulp. And then he jumped to his feet. "Matthew's right!"

"He is?" Gilbert whipped around.

"I am?" Matthew asked with a grin on his face.

"_Si, _you are. If he doesn't answer my phone calls, I should just meet him!" Antonio stumbled slightly as he threw on his jacket. He knew he was still a little sick, but who cared? Matthew was right. How stupid could he have been? If Lovi didn't want to talk to him, he'd just make him talk. Simple!

It was only as he was half-way out the door that Francis called after him. "Toni, wait! Do you even know where Feliciano and Lovino live?"

Gilbert smacked his forehead. "I'll drive you." Giving Francis a pointed glare, he added, "Help Matthew with his outfits. And _only _his outfits."

"…I don't know, I mean, he could do with a haircut, too…"

"_Verdammt, _Francis!"

* * *

"You look…well."

They were sitting indoors. A cute Italian restaurant in the plaza with cosy furniture and good food. From where Lovino sat, he could see snow gently falling from the sky. He felt numb. He thought he'd feel happiness or pain or fear. But he just felt nothing. Heracles was staring at him. His green eyes.

Sort of like Antonio's, actually.

"Yeah, whatever," Lovino replied, glancing at the menu to try and distract himself.

"Lovi…"

"Don't call me that." Lovino's eyes flashed dangerously as he looked up. "And don't call Feliciano 'Feli', either. It pisses me off. We're not fucking dating anymore. You're nobody to me."

"Then why did you agree to meet me?"

Lovino did not respond. He only blushed, looking back at the menu.

They spoke little. The waitress was a pretty blonde who served them wine and antipasti. Lovino gave his order. Heracles did too. The Italian watched carefully as Heracles smiled at the waitress, his eyes travelling all over her.

Why hadn't he noticed these things before? Now come to think of it, Heracles would do this all the time. They couldn't go anywhere without him staring at women, complimenting them, flirting with them. And honestly, Lovino hadn't minded. It was never serious, right? Lovino liked talking to women too. Women were nice. Good to look at. Occasionally. But it was one thing to be polite to them. Another altogether to seduce them while one was already in a long-term relationship.

Lovino felt completely empty inside as he watched Heracles's eyes follow the waitress as she went back to the kitchen to relay their order. Of all the things he could relate this situation to, it felt like _editing_. Lovino knew what it was like to proofread his own articles. He would think they were perfect until he got a little time away from them. When he got back to it, he saw only their flaws. Because he'd developed an emotional distance to them, that helped him look at them objectively.

And this was happening now, with Heracles. He'd not seen the other man in months and months. He'd fallen in love with Anto—he'd developed feelings for Antonio. Now, all he could see was Heracles and his flaws. His bad habits. And so many of them.

"So, are you seeing anyone?" Heracles asked, tentative.

"No." Lovino paused, assessing Heracles from the rim of his wine glass. "You?"

Heracles took a few minutes to reply. He opened his mouth slightly, closed it, and then swallowed. "No."

_You dirty liar. _

"So, you said you went to Greece?"

"Yeah…it was a sabbatical, of sorts. I changed my ways."

"Right."

"Really, Lovino, I'm serious." Heracles reached out and took Lovino's hand. The Italian flinched. But that touch. So familiar. So many good memories attached to it. He did not pull away. Heracles continued, "Athens, Santorini, Zakynthos…" he said the last word with a little more emphasis. "Remember how we met?"

"Navagio beach, Zakynthos. I was sunbathing. You were swimming. You got out of the water. Saw me. The rest, as they say, is history." Lovino said all of this in a deadpan tone, as though he were discussing a news headline. Lovino, Feliciano and their grandfather had been on a 'family vacation'. Ludwig had come too, although he and Feli weren't married, just in a serious relationship. Heracles had wasted no time buying Lovino a drink, and things had only progressed from there.

Heracles did not sense the tone of Lovino's voice. Either that, or he simply ignored it. "I was at Navagio, walking by the water one evening. You remember how we used to do that? Walk by the edge of the sea? You'd always complain about sand, though…It was always so cute."

Lovino took a sip of wine to distract himself. Was Heracles doing this on purpose? Making him relive these memories?

"Anyway, I still remember. I was walking by the edge of the sea. Slippers in my hand. And I was thinking…and I remembered that Plato once said…he said, 'the madness of love is the greatest of heaven's blessings'. And I remembered you. And how happy you made me feel."

"Then why the fuck did you cheat on me? Over, and over, and over again?" for the first time since this ordeal had begun, Lovino began to _feel. _The numbness that had taken control of him was starting to ebb. Now, he was just pissed off. He pushed his pizza away, adding, "You're so full of shit, Karpusi."

Heracles's eyes widened. "Lovino, please. Just listen. Please? I realised I had to see you. I had to apologise. And I don't know, maybe in time, we could…we could start over?"

The bombshell.

Start over?

What for?

Why?

Lovino would not survive another heartbreak from this man. He had loved Heracles too much, and he had been hurt too badly. And he could see it in Heracles's eyes. He might be honest now, but they were also distracted. They kept wandering to the waitresses. Even some of the waiters.

But…

But Heracles was _home_.

Heracles was safety and comfort and love. Heracles was a constant. Dependable. Eternal. He would always love him. Perhaps not in the same way. Perhaps not with the same intensity. But Lovino had never been in love before Heracles. Crushes, one-night-stands, flings, yes. But this? This had been his first real experience. And it had been so perfect. How could he let that go? How could he turn him down?

"…Bastard…" Lovino said weekly, dropping his head to his feet. "Take me home."

"Lovino? Are you alright?"

"Take me home…please."

* * *

"We're here!" Gilbert announced, startling Antonio from a light doze. The Spaniard's tan skin was a little pale, but at least he didn't have a temperature. The car pulled up alongside the Vargas-Beilschmidt house. As Antonio rubbed his eyes, Gilbert cussed.

"What is it?"

"What the _fuck _is Heracles Karpusi doing here?"

Antonio followed Gilbert's gaze, and his heart sank.

* * *

At the door, Heracles held on to Lovino's wrist. "When can I see you next?" he asked, a touch of urgency in his voice.

Lovino's head was hurting. Heracles. His perfectly sculpted body. Those green eyes. That dark hair. His skin, the taste of his lips. The way they made love. The way they talked, laughed. The way Lovino cussed at him, the way he grinned in response. The way Heracles could go on and on about philosophy, his face lighting up in passion and joy as he spoke about Plato and Socrates and all of those old wise men who seemed to know the secrets of the universe.

Lovino leaned forward, his hands holding Heracles's face. Their lips touched. Lovino deepened it, and he heard the Greek moan into the kiss.

Heracles. Heracles, Heracles.

When Lovino pulled away, his eyes were filled with tears.

"…Lovino?" Heracles asked, his face flushed.

"I loved you," the Italian said softly. He took out his house keys and opened the door. "Goodbye, Heracles."

* * *

Antonio fell back against the seat, closing his eyes. Lovino had…_kissed _that man. That Heracles. His cheating, horrible ex. Lovino had _kissed _him.

"I'm so sorry, man," Gilbert said softly, placing a hand on Antonio's shoulder.

"'Sokay," the Spaniard slurred weakly.

Gilbert frowned, instinctively putting his palm on Antonio's forehead. The fever was back. It was back in full force. "Let's get you home."

"Home…" Antonio repeated quietly, his voice far away.

* * *

Interlude

* * *

"_The thing about love, Antonio," his mother said as she handed him a plate of sliced tomatoes. Salt and pepper sprinkled over the red flesh of the fruit, and he took some eagerly with his fork, listening as his mother spoke truths. She had that lost look in her eyes as she stared into a distance that only she could see, her imagination free from the confines of the kitchen walls. "The thing about love is that you can't stop it, control it, curb it."_

"_So?" the five-year-old asked, his mouth full. She shot him a reprimanding look, and he grinned cheekily, tomato juice dripping from his chin. _

"_But it hurts the most when it isn't returned."_

_He tilted his head to the side. His mother would sometimes talk to him about love, he never knew why. _

"_You're such a sensitive boy," she went on, sounding almost sad. "You're going to fall in love so passionately. So completely. It worries me sometimes. I couldn't stand seeing you hurt."_

_Antonio giggled. "Love is stupid."_

"_It is," she agreed. "But it's everything." _

* * *

"Antonio?"

The Spaniard looked up to the sound of the voice. The buzz of _The Hungarian Café _came back to him. He paused as he wiped the table. The indoors section of the restaurant was packed, because the snow had made it impossible for customers to sit outside. It was just after lunch rush.

Antonio saw Luciano standing next to him. How had he not noticed the Brazilian?

"Oh, hello," the Spaniard said weakly. He'd taken many days off work thanks to his stupid fever. He was still rather tired.

Luciano was frowning at him, looking concerned and upset. "You don't come to class anymore."

"…Haha…no."

"Neither does Lovino. Did something happen?"

"…You could say that."

Luciano sighed, shaking his head in disappointment. "Come back to class, Antonio. Please."

"I can't," the Spaniard replied, his stomach twisting at the thought. He could not dance. Dance ruined everything. This thing with Lovi was only proof of that. Dancing was only good when his parents had been alive. Anything beyond that was…wrong. Dancing had made him fall in love. Dancing had broken his heart. He couldn't bear the thought of dancing. Never again.

Luciano stared at him for a long minute, and Antonio could not look him in the eye.

"…I don't know what happened between you two," Luciano began simply, "But don't let it hurt you like this. Because right now, you're not half the person you are when you dance. You don't think I noticed? How nervous and shy and scared you used to be? And that was changing. You were become so much more confident. You looked happier. And…well…" Luciano sighed once more. "Just come back to class, Antonio."

The Spaniard shook his head, forcing away a torrent of tears. "I can't. I just can't."

* * *

The apartment was so empty. Without Gilbert's mess lying around all over the place, it seemed to be missing something. There were just suitcases, boxes, bags. Francis and Antonio tried their best to ignore the gaping hole in their comfort zone, but Gilbert's unusual silence was doing nothing to help. "Tomorrow. I get married tomorrow." He took another swig of his beer. "And then I'm going to Germany. And I won't see you guys!"

"Oh come on, Gil," Francis said seriously, "You said it yourself. Berlin is just a train-journey away. Look, you're getting married tomorrow! We shouldn't be sitting here, sulking. Get your _derrière _up. We're going to go clubbing!" Because the house was too depressingly empty for a bachelor's party.

Drinking brainlessly with his two best friends was the most fun Antonio had had since what felt like a century.

* * *

"Antonio will be there, won't he?" Lovino asked as he sat in the backseat of the new car. The snow that blanketed the city now was perfectly white, soft and crunchy. The weather held up beautifully. It certainly seemed like a nice time to get married.

"Of course," Ludwig answered, not taking his eyes off the road. "He's a close friend of Gilbert's."

Lovino sighed. "Whatever."

Feliciano switched on the radio, trying to break the awkward silence that followed.

* * *

"Do you, Matthew, take Gilbert to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I do."

Beside Antonio, Alfred, Matthew's cousin, burst into tears and buried his head into his wife Lien's shoulder. Alfred had initially been Matthew's best man, but when the Canadian had realised his brother was prone to getting _this _emotional, he'd promptly changed his mind and asked an old college friend to do it for him.

"Do you, Gilbert, take Matthew to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I do."

Francis, Gilbert's best man, was red-eyed and smiling as he wiped a stray tear off his face. Antonio grinned a little to himself, too.

"Then I pronounce you married. You may kiss."

When Matthew and Gilbert's lips met, Alfred's shoulders shook harder, and Antonio distinctly heard him weep, "My lil Mattie's all grown up!"

Lien, looking a combination of amused and irritated, patted his shoulders. "There, there."

Antonio glanced across the aisle. Feliciano was crying, but that didn't surprise anyone. Ludwig had a hint of a smile on his face. But the Spaniard's heart clenched as he saw Lovino. The Italian stared straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the happy couple but his expression faraway. He hadn't been able to even get close to Lovi. The wedding—and all the minor disasters that preceded them—had been keeping him busy.

_Tsk. I shouldn't be selfish. _With that thought, he turned back to Gilbert and Matthew who were laughing with their foreheads pressed together. Seriously, they were adorable.

As they walked down the aisle, with the best men and procession of other assorted semi-important people following, Francis winked at Arthur, in his seat, who turned bright red and tried not to grin too widely. Arthur was Francis's plus-one. They were an official couple now. Sort of.

Antonio glanced towards Lovi again. Where was Heracles? He found it a little hard to believe that Lovi wouldn't bring a date to the wedding, especially since he'd got back together with this jerk who'd hurt him so badly. The very _thought _of that Greek made Antonio ball his fists in anger.

"Love is so beautiful," Alfred sobbed, making Lien smirk slightly.

Antonio glanced at the American. "Is he okay?" he asked the Vietnamese woman who was currently running her hands through Alfred's hair.

Lien shook her head in a 'don't-you-worry-about-it' sort of way. "He's just got a lot of feelings."

"Haha, I see."

Alfred blew his nose on a handkerchief. Lien winced. Antonio looked away.

* * *

"Gilbert and I were roommates in college," Francis began, holding up his wine glass as he gave his toast. Antonio fidgeted under the table. Beside him were Alfred and Lien, again, and Ludwig and Feliciano. Lovino had conveniently vanished. There was an empty chair where he should have been. Gilbert and Matthew were sitting together, hand-in-hand, with the albino grinning up at the Frenchman.

"And let me tell you, at first, we didn't really like each other. I thought he was crass, loud, irritating, alcoholic, uncouth—"

"Wow, thanks, man," Gilbert interjected, and everybody laughed.

Francis smirked, lightly thumping him on the back. "—uncouth, stupid, untidy, and worst of all, _he left the toilet seat up_."

"Mm…he still does that," Matthew muttered, and everyone laughed once more.

"I love you guys," Gilbert sighed in exasperation, and Matthew chuckled, pecking him lightly on the cheek.

"But then," Francis went on, "We realised we had something in common. We. Were. Awesome." As expected, people snickered, rolling their eyes. Ludwig and Arthur both said something sarcastic. Francis continued, "We played pranks on everyone, got into trouble with the professors, went to jail, drove drunk, and did a hundred other things we were not supposed to do. Some of my happiest memories are with Gilbert. He is my brother, my best friend, my partner in crime. And together with Antonio," Francis gestured to the Spaniard, who straightened up and grinned, "We've had some wonderful times.

"I've seen Gilbert at his best and worst, and I'm ecstatic to say that Matthew brings out the absolute best in him. Matthew," Francis said, looking at the Canadian, "You are truly lucky. Gilbert is one of the kindest people I know, even if he is a bit of a moron."

"Thanks, Francis, really."

"Shut it, Gil. Anyway, Matthew, Gilbert, I wish you nothing but happiness and health. And if you ever, _ever _need sex advice, I'm always happy to help."

Roars of laughter. It took several minutes for people to quieten down.

Matthew grinned placidly, lifting his glass in acknowledgement. "Thank you, Francis. But trust me, _you _could probably learn a thing or two from _us_."

"Oh? Is that a challenge?"

"Guys, jeez, shut up, you're gonna make me puke. Nobody wants to think about their family members having sex lives," Alfred muttered, taking his glass and standing. "My turn." He looked at the guests and said, "Gil and I have always been buddies. But when I found out he had designs on my brother, I almost killed him. Really. Like, not cool, man. But then it turns out that Mattie's got a thing for Gil—bad taste, Matt, seriously—so I relented, because I'm the hero. Anyway, here we are. Gilbert, if you hurt my brother, I will break your face. Congratulations on your wedding! I love you guys!"

Well. Okay.

Ludwig stood up next, saying, "Matthew is good for Gilbert. My brother has a wild side that Matthew is able to control. Thank god for that." People laughed, though it didn't seem as though Ludwig had made a joke intentionally. "Matthew, you've made my brother happier than I've ever seen him. I do give you only the warmest welcome into our family."

The Canadian blushed. "Thank you, Ludwig."

Some more speeches. Antonio was so restless. Where was Lovino? Where did he vanish off to? The couple's dance would be starting soon! Of course Antonio wanted to see Matthew and Gilbert doing that waltz they'd practiced for, but the thought of seeing them dance ballroom without having Lovino to partner with was an image too horrible to bear.

It was starting. Matthew and Gilbert stood, walking towards the dance floor with grace that Antonio did not know they possessed. He'd seen them practice in class initially, but he hadn't been going for so long. He had no idea how good they were, and hadn't asked. If he thought of dance, he thought of Lovi. And thinking of the Italian made everything in his body hurt.

The waltz. Antonio automatically started swaying in his seat to it as Gilbert and Matthew held each other close. They were perfect for each other. They swept across the floor so seamlessly. Antonio knew how to recognise the 'meant-to-be' dance partners, and he saw that in these two.

Just like him and Lovi.

Oh god.

He couldn't take it anymore. He leaned across the table, to where Feliciano was watching the dance, whispering to Ludwig and smiling as he did. He lightly poked the younger Vargas in the shoulder, and when Feliciano turned, asked, "Have you seen Lovi?"

Feliciano gave him an odd, uncertain look. "He disappeared after the service. But he should be around somewhere, don't worry."

Antonio stared at Feliciano for a few more seconds.

The younger Vargas quietly added, "You make him happy, you know?"

"I...I do?"

"Yes."

It happened at once.

_Dancing isn't bad. Dancing is life. Dancing does not ruin. It only creates. _

"But...But I thought he was with Heracles now?"

Feliciano frowned, looking genuinely confused. "What? No. He went out with him the other day, but that didn't work out. Lovi's far too good for stupid Heracles, anyway."

Antonio stared at Feli some more. And then he stood, distractedly excusing himself. Elizabeta accosted him just as he was about to leave the room. "Where to?" she asked, smiling. "Not running away, are you?"

"Haha, looking for the bathrooms."

She let him go after that.

Lovi. Lovi. Where was Lovi? Had Feli meant what he said? It was too good to be true. But…Lovi made him happy, too. Lovi made him feel brave. Dammit. He was going to find Lovino Vargas. Antonio had had enough. He was going to find and talk to Lovino Vargas.

And he was going to tell Lovino Vargas that he loved him.

Antonio walked quickly down the hallways of the venue. They'd rented a place at a nice hotel, with Feliciano's priest ministering the wedding. There were a million places to hide around here, so where could he—

Oh.

There he was.

At the bar.

* * *

This. Was. Pathetic.

It wasn't an actual bar. It was just a _place _with _alcohol. _The sort of structure that seemed to spring out of the ground specifically for a wedding, and then vanish into oblivion as soon as it wasn't needed. Lovino sat on a tall stool, nursing one glass of wine that he had barely touched. He had a tray of canapés in front of him. Sure, these were actually for the other guests, but who gave a shit? He popped one into his mouth, chewing slowly.

So pathetic.

Who came to a wedding without a date? That was just sad. And right now, Lovino was feeling lonelier than ever. Heracles was gone. Gone from his life, gone from good. Antonio was right here, in the venue, but so far away. Besides, Lovino couldn't stomach the thought of a relationship. It scared him. It terrified the living shit out of him.

He checked his watch. He could hear soft waltz music coming from near-by. Matthew and Gilbert were probably doing their wedding dance. _Ugh._ There was no way he could handle _that_. If he thought of dance, he thought of Antonio. And he couldn't afford to. It hurt too much. In fact, he hadn't even wanted to come, but Feliciano had given him a dirty look and bullied him into it. He could still remember his brother's sharp reprimand. _"It's Ludwig's BROTHER'S wedding. He's FAMILY. And Matthew, you like Matthew. He's your FRIEND. I'm NOT taking no for an answer."_

Lovino secretly pitied whatever child Feli and Ludwig ever decided to adopt.

He didn't even know what he was upset about anymore. At first it was because he'd dropped all his defences and slept with Antonio. And then it was because he wanted to be left alone to sulk, but Antonio kept bugging him. And then it was because Heracles was back, with his stupid lying and pathetic apologies. And now…now, Lovino was just upset. One part of him wanted Antonio. Badly. He wouldn't go so far as to say he was in love, although sometimes it felt like that. He just wanted to hold Antonio, to dance with him. (Forever).

Another part of him wanted to run. To run away from the situation, away from the conflict. To simply give up any hopes of a relationship with that man. Why bother? He'd just get hurt. Everyone always left him in the end. He wasn't like Feli. He wasn't cute and talented and likable. He was just Lovino. Crabby, snappy, unpleasant Lovino.

The bartender gave him sympathetic look. "You okay, buddy? You look really down."

"I wonder why," Lovino replied darkly. And he wasn't even being sarcastic.

"Lovi!"

Oh holy fuck.

* * *

Lovino whipped around so suddenly that he almost fell off the barstool. "An-Antonio…!" he stammered, his face turning bright red as the Spaniard approached him. Antonio looked like a mess. Sleepless, tired, but mostly, he sported such a sad expression in his eyes that it made Lovino want to look away. And there it was, the taut hold in Antonio's back. He was tense, nervous. But then, wasn't he always?

No…that night…Antonio hadn't been nervous when they'd slept together. Antonio hadn't been nervous when they'd danced. Upset, sure. Devastated. But Antonio had not been nervous.

"Lovi, I—"

"Leave me alone."

"But—"

"I _don't _want to talk to you! Leave me the fuck alone, Antonio!"

A broken expression came upon his features. "…Sorry, Lovi. I'll…I'll go." And he turned and walked a few steps away. But then, Antonio stopped. Lovino heard him inhale deeply, and the Spaniard looked back at him. "No."

"No? No what?"

The bartender seemed to get the hint. He quickly excused himself, muttering something about needing more Budweiser. Lovino was alone in a room with Antonio. Shit.

"I want to talk to you. And I would like it if you listened to me."

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

"I don't give a fuck about what you want to say."

But Antonio had taken quick, large strides across the room. And before Lovino knew it, he was being hugged.

Antonio was holding him so completely that at first, the Italian didn't know how to react. His first instinct would have been to kick and scream until Antonio let him go, but something in his brain shut down. Antonio was holding him. Again.

"_Te amo,_" Antonio whispered in his ear. "I love you. I need you. You're my dance partner."

Blood was rushing to Lovino's head, and the only thing he could hear was the roar in his own ears. Antonio loved him. Antonio loved him. Antonio loved him.

He was going to get hurt.

Lovino was going to get hurt.

_NO._

* * *

"You don't," Lovino said back, struggling to keep the tears at bay. Antonio was still holding onto him, almost as though he was afraid Lovino would disappear if he let go. "You don't love me. Nobody does."

"I do! I do! And I'll prove it to you every day." Antonio pulled away now, placing his hands on Lovino's shoulders. Green eyes met gold. Antonio was looking at him very, very seriously. "You make me feel safe. You keep me calm. I need you. You make me so, so happy, Lovi."

"I can't." Tears, traitorous tears ran down Lovino's face. "It'll be like Heracles all over again. I can't. I can't. I just can't." He tried to push Antonio away. "Let me be. Just go."

"No." And Antonio approached, holding Lovino by the shoulders again. "You push people away, don't you? That's what you've always done, isn't it? You trust nobody. I know that, Lovino, I _know _that. But I trust you. And I'll fight for you. Have you ever had anybody fight for you? I'll battle your demons for you, Lovino. I'll protect you. Every wall you put up, every single thing you do to keep me away. I'll break them down for you. _Te prometo_, Lovino! Instead of your inhibitions keeping you safe, allow me. Allow me. I'll do it for you. Please. That's what we've always done. We dance. Isn't it, Lovi? We dance the monsters away."

"You _can't._ You simply can't keep me safe, you idiot. I'll…I'll be possessive. I'll get jealous. I won't like it when you speak to certain people. I'll make you miserable. Besides, Antonio, how can you possibly take care of me? You're a fucking mess yourself. You can't handle loud noises or hot weather. You get panic attacks. You're so scared of everything!" Lovino shook his head violently. "It's too soon. It's too fucking soon for a relationship. I can't do this."

"…Maybe it is too soon for a relationship."

The tone of Antonio's voice made Lovino tense slightly. When he looked up, the Spaniard had that old look of tenderness on his face. "You're right. I'm terrified. But…but when I'm with you, I don't feel so scared. You keep me safe, don't you get it? And if you have to wait, then I'll wait with you. Maybe it is too soon for a relationship, but…" and then he slowly extended his hand. "But despite that…but despite that, shall we dance?"

Lovino looked at Antonio's palm, looked into his green eyes. And then he leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss on Antonio's jaw. A hand slid into the Spaniard's own, another found Antonio's shoulder. They would have to do this together. Lovino would follow Antonio's lead. Lovino would look Antonio right in his eyes. And Lovino would trust him.

And Antonio. Antonio would guide Lovino. Direct him, steady him, protect him. Because if Antonio could do this in a dance, he could do it even otherwise. Because dance was like a Petri dish. If they could do it with their arms around each other, they could do it any other time.

There was no music, but they danced. How many minutes passed? How many years? They danced until they reached catharsis. Until there was no more emotion left to purge. Until every atom of negativity was up in the air, out of their bodies, away.

And as the other guests began filing into the bar for a drink, Antonio held Lovino close.

Softly, terrified, the Italian whispered, "_Ti amo_."

Antonio pretended not to hear, because he knew Lovino needed time to get used to the idea. But the Spaniard held him closer, and they swayed to no music at all.

* * *

**A/N: HOLY CRAP. IT'S OVER. **

**Firstly, I'm so very sorry for the late update. This chapter was giving me so much trouble, you have no idea. I apologise if it sucked. Also, I'm sorry if I messed up any of the details of the Christian wedding. I'm not a Christian, and I've never been to a Christian wedding in my life before. **

***Lien is apparently a fan-given human name for Vietnam. **

***For the purpose of this AU, Matthew and Alfred are not twins, but cousins. Because I love the thought of them being related, but I don't like changing their surnames to match. This way, they can keep their surnames and I can have them being brothers. **

***Also, if you got the Mean Girl's reference in there, I shall give you a cookie. xD**

***And another thing I completely forgot to mention. My fic is set in a fictional city in a nameless European country where it's rainy and snowy and overcast most of the time. This place is close to Berlin by train, too. I don't want to actually set it in a real place, because I don't know nearly enough about these countries to want to use them as a setting. So yeah, "Nameless Country" and "Fictional City" work fine for me. **

**Also, there is one important thing I have to do:**

***GLOMPS ALL REVIEWERS*. **

**You guys! Seriously, I was so touched at the response I got for chapter 2! It made me feel so special. Thank you, thank you so much. I'm so lucky to have such kind readers. Thank you for sticking with this story, even though the chapters are freakishly long. I really enjoyed writing it, and I'm so glad that you guys liked reading it.**

**So, yeah. **

**Thank you, guys. Please review. **

**And remember to keep dancing! **


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